


Love Lies Bleeding

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Series: Silver-Crowned Royal Lark [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Canon Underage (Pavetta), Child Abuse, Enemies to Lovers, Heat is spent alone, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier has a botanical passion, Jaskier's parents are bad parents, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Mpreg is not the focus, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Prince Jaskier | Dandelion, Rape/Non-con outside of Geralt/Jaskier, Read the intro notes for more information, Still unsure if I'll end up writing certain triggers, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Timeline What Timeline, Underage Description of Heat, mentions of mpreg, read the endnotes for chapter specific triggers, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: When disgrace falls upon the Metinna Royal House, in the wake of the Nilfgaardian invasion, the omega Prince Julian of Lettenhove is captured by Redanian spies, who had come for him at the infamously demented King of the North’s behest.The south is swarming with Nilfgaardians though, and the only way to smuggle the prince out of the war ridden country is through mountainous monster territory. The king finds that the best solution to this problem is to hire a witcher to do his bidding.-----------The chains fall from his hands, landing on the floor with a loud clang. His hands would have followed suit if the guard hadn’t seized them. The guard hauls him up and Julian has to cling to him for support, head going woozy from the sudden vertical position and muscles screaming in agony from the sudden stimulation.“What the fuck is this?” the stranger all but growls, his deep yellow eyes flashing with fury. Julian jumps at the sound of his voice, gravely and biting. “I was told I was to smuggle a weapon, not a fucking omega.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Pavetta
Series: Silver-Crowned Royal Lark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741936
Comments: 95
Kudos: 475





	1. Memories

**Author's Note:**

> READ the endnotes for chapter specific triggers!
> 
> So, I've had this idea in my head for a while, and I finally decided to act on it. Safe to say this fic is going to deal with some dark themes, which I'm a little nervous about, but I still wanted to write it.  
> I was also planning for this to be a long fic, which it will be, but I have no idea how long. I was just going to write a little backstory on Jaskier and it turned into a 10k monster that I had to split in two to make future chapters more feasible. The first two chapters will discuss Jaskier's past, and Geralt won't really step in until around chapter 3, I think.
> 
> Also, the mpreg will not be the focus of this fic. I'm not sure yet if I'll approach it in the end of the fic, or if I'll write a sequel for it.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **UNLISTED TRIGGERS**
> 
> As for **possible triggers not mentioned in the tags** (as I don't know if I'll get around to them) are the mpreg (as stated above), actual rape/non-con involving Jaskier (not with Geralt) and a bad ending (but if so I will write a sequel where I sort it out).
> 
> There is a scene in the fic where it appears as major character death has occured (and from the narrator's pov it has), but rest assured, I didn't include the tag because it doesn't actually happen. There is no major character death. And that scene doesn't last very long.
> 
> There will be chapter specific warnings in every chapter's end notes, so if you wish to avoid something, you can leave me a comment and I'll insert: starts here "x" end here "y" in the notes.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The timelines for this are all over the place errr, I'm basically changing the date of wars and characters ages in relation to one another without a care :D
> 
> Jaskier will not remain 'Julian' for long in the fic, so, if you don't like the name, you won't have to worry for long xD
> 
> A little thing that I'm really proud of; the title of this fic is actually a flower! And a pretty one too! It's also a good descriptor of a future scene in the fic :3

Julian contemplates the various dishes and appetizers laid out on the regally decorated side table with little interest, making a show of debating over the vol-au-vents and stuffed quail eggs. 

He’s far from hungry, but it’s a good pretext to get away from the obnoxious dukes and royal boot-lickers vying for his hand. This whole thing is a charade. Stupid, deceitful and useless. Like most royal festivities are, really.

What he wouldn’t give to be strolling the grounds with his beloved lute, strumming along idly to the blooming carnations and lilies that graced his mother’s famous royal gardens. Not that she’d ever deign herself to sully her pristine silk dresses with such trivialities as plant tending. That’s what the help was for, right?

The gardens were his hideaway, his refuge, the only place his own thoughts and musings were appreciated, or at the very least, not spurned. He could play his lute for hours on end there (when they allowed him the privilege), he could escape into the little worlds he concocted for himself with his music. The flora didn’t care much for the intricacies and complexities of royal etiquette and duty -- apparently it didn’t befall a prince of his stature to lower himself to such trifles as common folk lyricism and hands-on botany.

As a child, he used to run around after the groundskeeper, a gentle-mannered old man with a greying head of hair, pestering with inquiries about anything and everything concerning the sprouting flowers and shrubbery. The man was of Ard Skelliger origin, having been trained with the druids in the western forests and emigrated later on to the continent. As a result of his druid tutelage, Mr. Kretrson was highly versed in all matters of nature and its practices, knowledge which he passed on to Julian in good part. 

It had truly fascinated him, all the gifts that nature presented man with if he just knew where to look for them. Plants were truly astonishing; they had so many uses and properties, so many significances and appearances. 

He remembered very clearly the first time he pricked his hand on the thorns of a rose. He’d been enchanted with the lushy bright petals that glimmered in the sunlight, vivid red like the drops of blood that fell from his scraped hand when he tried to pluck such delicate beauty from the soil. Mr. Kretrson cleaned his palms and dried his tears. He explained to Julian that plants, just like people, were living beings and, as such, would seek to protect themselves. It is not fit to take something for oneself simply because one finds it beautiful.

One should know how much and how long to take, be mindful not to disrupt the balance and harmony of nature. An entire forest could collapse on itself solely on the account of a single plant; if a hare had no grass to feed on, their numbers would dwindle, and no prey would be left for the fox and the wolf. Then men, mad about the lack of fur coats to weather the cold and the shortage of meat to stave off starvation, would turn their ire to the gods, not realizing that the fault laid in themselves for upturning the earth to make their streets and their buildings.

He found out just how dangerous plants could be one fated afternoon as he played with his siblings in the outer grounds, at a time in which Niklas had still deemed Julian worthy of his conversation and Liesbet had not minded romping with them in the dirt. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

He had about seven summers on him at the time, with his brother being ten and his sister eight. Niklas had always been the most hard headed and stouthearted among them, and, normally, he was the one that convinced them to sneak outside the keep in a quest to look for hidden treasure. 

Par for the course, Julian had come across an unknown flowery shrub and forgotten all semblance of a game. He’d never seen that plant before within the castle walls, not even in the weeds that Mr. Kretrson had pointed out to him as undesirable, the ones that needed uprooting so as not to disturb the nutrition of the others. Those kinds of plants didn’t know when to stop growing, so they took and they took until they starved everything around them, brewing instability and chaos in the normal order of things. 

It would only be later in his life that Julian realized just how very much like those plants people could behave. 

He stepped closer, reaching forward to trace the purple bell-like outline with his fingers. Some of the flowers were still in light-green bulbs, but others had bloomed, petals peeling back into a star shaped calyx with a fat round black berry placed in the center.

His brother was quick to notice Julian’s diverted attention though, and marched over to see what had distracted him for the search.

“What are you doing, Julian?” he whined, stabbing at the ground petulantly with the dry stick he’d pick up near the olive grove and promptly declared his sword. “You’re supposed to help us look for gold!”

Julian snatched his hand back and turned to his brother, who was no longer looking at him but at the glossy berries with a greedy glint in his eye. Niklas dropped his stick to the ground and stepped forward, plucking some of the ripe tomato-looking fruit.

“Wait!” Julian blurted just as his brother prepared to eat one. “You don’t know what they are.”

Niklas’ arm arrested in the air at the sudden warning, his brows furrowing into a frown as he shot Julian a baffled look. Liesbet had realized that her brothers were no longer interested in the hunt by then, and had trotted over to them, the wild daisies Julian had plucked and weaved into her hair fluttering loosely with the strands in the summer breeze.

“They’re berries,” Niklas stated in a patronizing tone of voice before popping one into his mouth. “And they’re sweet.”

Julian frowned, still not convinced, and eyed the plant distrustingly as his brother reached out to collect more of the inky berries. Niklas gathered a handful and stretched out his hand to Julian, presenting some of the fruit.

Julian looked at the berries hesitantly, feeling slightly tempted by the lustrous shine of them, but ultimately shook his head and stepped back. He did not trust plants he had not read or heard about before. Niklas rolled his eyes and held them out to Liesbet instead. 

His sister approached them, peering at the strange berries with interest. She snatched one from Niklas’ hands and held it at eye level, examining it carefully. Before she could bring it down to her mouth though, she glanced at Niklas and gasped in surprise, the berry slipping from her fingers.

“What’s wrong with your eyes, Niklas?” She cried, reaching forward to tug their brother towards her.

Julian scrambled to her side to see the cause of the unsettlement, his own stomach twisting into a dozen complicated knots from the dread. Niklas looked down at them, surprised, and Julian could see right away what had caught Liesbet's attention. His brother’s eyes had turned almost completely black, only a thin ring of his usual chocolate brown remaining along the edges where the pupil hadn’t reached. 

Niklas had turned very pale then, a dazed tone taking over his expression as he stumbled backwards and plopped down on the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Liesbet wailed in fright and dropped to her knees beside him, the berries that Niklas had let drop to the ground squishing beneath her skirts. 

Julian gulped, feeling the panic start to grip him, and set off at a run towards the castle gates. He ran as fast as his short legs could carry him, heart pounding in his chest and air burning in his throat from how fast he was sucking it in. When he reached the grounds, he was panting and wheezing so hard he could barely breathe, much less talk. He still managed to yell in warning, and gasp out an explanation of what happened, sending the servants into a flurry. A couple of guards immediately rode out to bring the young prince and princess back to the castle and the castle’s mage was called upon.

Niklas had spent the entirety of the following night and day in the infirmary, being fed elixirs and purged of the poisons with spells and other medicines. Safe to say his parents weren’t happy with the situation. Right away they demanded to know what had happened to their firstborn and heir apparent, and, very rapidly, turned their accusing gazes upon Julian. Nevermind that he’d advised his brother against eating the toxic fruit, Julian was the one with the strange botanical passion so, naturally, the fault fell on him.

The only thing that lessened his punishment to a mild whooping and banishment from the gardens for the months to come was his sister’s avouchment of his good intentions.

His brother eventually pulled through, and his parents conducted a massive search of the grounds and neighboring lands, ridding the land of the plant he later discovered to have been deadly nightshade.

Because he was forbidden from going to the gardens, he took to the library. He vowed to never again be caught unaware like that, and spent countless evenings thumbing through thick encyclopedias of plants and flowers, gazing upon their fruits, pods, blossoms and roots. He would later recite the passages of each plant they crossed to an amused looking Mr. Kretrson, who corrected him on occasion when the extracts weren’t quite accurate, and taught him the way of the things not written. 

He’d been truly low of spirits when the groundskeeper passed away, just shy of his twelfth birthday. It had been a bleak one, and they hadn’t really gotten any better from that point forward. 

It was shortly after that he discovered the gift of music, being fascinated by one of the bards that came to play at the palace during the banquet of his father’s fortieth birthday. From the moment he heard the notes fall from the masterfully plucked chords of that lute, Julian was enthralled. He listened in awe as the bard weaved words and tunes together to create epic stories and praise past deeds, effectively shaping the mood and disposition of an entire room at his will. Such an ability held power, a pure and graceful form of power. 

He made it his life’s mission to acquire a lute for himself then, and didn't rest until he bribed one of the couriers with his gold medallion chains to buy one for him. There had been some confusion as to how the instrument had appeared, but thankfully his parents didn’t confiscate it. They merely viewed it as a new bargaining chip to make Julian do their bidding.

The music had served as a good coping mechanism, and helped him get over the grief he felt over the loss of the only parental figure he’d liked in his life. 

Mr. Kretrson had taught him a great many things before the end of his life, and that was something Julian would always be thankful for. He’d learnt about nature, cultivation, uses and meanings of both flowers and fruits, even before the latter were addressed by his tutor in regards to noble correspondence, and most important of all, life. 

When the subject of flowers had come up during his tutelage, he almost jumped straight out of his seat in joy. Finally, one of the things he truly cared and was fascinated about. It had been one of his few opportunities to shine, not because of lack of intelligence, though. No, that old hag Mrs. Marithide wouldn’t let him bask in the satisfaction for long. Oh, how he despised the woman, with her absolutely hideous gowns, hair like rotten wheat and that horribly crooked nose. If only the outwardly ghastly appearance hadn’t reflected her personality. 

At least he hadn’t been subjected to her utterly stale and insipid teachings for much longer. Shortly after his thirteenth birthday, all notions of higher education and schooling in the matters of ruling were thrown out the window. He supposed every situation had a silver lining. 

Who needs an omega educated in the matters of state, after all? It’s about as pertinent and fruitful as wings on a hen, which goes to say, it’s laughable, unnecessary, and a waste of resources. According to his wise and of many years weathered father, that is. 

He doesn’t feel particularly incapable or brain addled just because once every few months his arse leaks slick and thirsts for cock, but what does he know of these things? He’s an omega, he doesn’t get an opinion.

Had he been a peasant, he would have been sold like cattle to the village lord the minute he presented, that is if every alpha in the village hadn’t had their way with him by that time. Even then though, he would’ve been bought anyway, if only for a lower sum. That’s what he’d been told, time and time again. Be thankful for what you have, be thankful for what you are, look at all the other people who have it worse.

Omegas were precious after all, a rare find, males even more so. They were something to procure and store away among other exotic riches. ‘Unsullied’ ones flew for a king’s fortune, which was a tame way to say it was every alpha’s wet dream to deflower an omega. The logic behind it flew over his head, quite frankly. 

In his humble opinion, an experienced bed partner would deliver a considerably superior performance, and not be scared shitless at the prospect of being mishandled by an impatient alpha. 

It didn’t matter that it made little sense to him, though. It was what it was, and it was why even in the throes of heat, regardless of how loudly and desperately he begged, thrashed and cried, no aids or favorable objects of any sort were left in his proximity. His parents would never risk devaluing their merchandise.

When the time for his heat came around, he was herded to a remote part of the palace, shoved into a bare room with little preamble and locked inside for about a week. He had but a bed and four greyish stone walls for company. 

The room was grim and somber, the only source of light being the slits of the heavy door and a lonesome window that was barred shut. There was a painting on the wall opposite the bed, a prairie field full of colorful sprouting asters and tickseed, and it was about the sole redeeming quality of the chamber. The view from the sole hole in the wall that could only flatteringly be called a window was quite uninspiring, overlooking the east barbican and little else. 

He didn’t spend much time admiring the scenery, granted, but it would be nice to have something to look at other than the air and the prairie painting in the later days of his heat, when the haze of lust and neediness receded just enough for him to be bored out of his mind. 

The room was thoroughly cleaned after his heats, and it was placed near the kitchens, so the smell of fresh bread and soup always wafted through the chamber whenever he first stepped foot inside. At the end though, the scent of his slick and arousal hanged thickly in the air, giving it the musky undertone of omega heat. 

The wooden floor was awfully scraped up, with long shallow scratches that ran the entire length of the room. If Julian had to hazard a guess, he’d say all the furnishing had been hastily dragged out at the time of his first heat. 

What a nightmare it had been. 

He’d been scared out of his wits for starters, largely because no one had had the foresight to explain to the actual omega what was going on. 

He’d awoken with a mild fever and a general discomfort. His muscles ached as if strenuously exercised the day prior, although he’d only taken a short stroll through the gardens, and there was a hollowness that he couldn’t describe deep in his core. His mind couldn’t even bear the thought of leaving the warm nest of bed linens he had draped himself with, so he didn’t. He ignored the breakfast call, uncaring of the fuss his mother was sure to kick up at the blatant lack of decorum, and wallowed in his own misery, trying to chase away that miserable emptiness. 

When the chambermaid stepped inside his room for the late-morning rounds, she squeaked, dropped a (thankfully) empty chamberpot that crashed to the ground with an infernal clang and promptly ran off. He was too busy covering his ears and blocking out the echoes of the horrible noise still rattling in his head to give much thought to the flustered girl that fled at the sight of him. Not long after her disappearance though, there was a flurry of activity from down the hall, prefaced by the furious voice of his father shouting out hurried commands. He raised his head at the sound instinctively, a familiar sinking feeling in his chest at the prospect of his father’s ire. 

Swallowing hard around the sudden knot in his throat, he shrank back into the fort of blankets he had created for himself as the chamber’s door burst open, a flood of servants and a castle guard barreling inside, with his father at their heels. 

He was all but yanked out of bed by the guard, the linens wrapping around his legs in the frenzy and tripping him as he tried to get his feet under himself, legs wobbling under the sudden weight. His father grabbed hold of his arm, hand wrapping around his skin like a vice, and wrenched him away, marching out into the hallway with the omega staggering behind. 

Cheeks burning in embarrassment and tears stinging at the corner of his eyes, he was unceremoniously dragged off to the heat room through the more secluded passages of the castle, keeping his head low to avoid the shocked looks of the servants they came across. 

He could feel the fabric of his sleeping pants chafing painfully against his straining erection, which he was mortified about, since the flimsy tissue of the garment did little to hide the prominent bulge. He also remembered feeling the rear end of his trousers sticking to his skin, and being horribly frightened by it, imagining it to be blood.

When they finally reached the little desolate room, he was dumped on the bed with the instruction to stay put. He recoiled into the wooly aged quilt, scared, humiliated and confused, and watched his father’s retreating back as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

For the first days, he curled himself up on the bed and ignored everything. He didn’t get up to collect the tray with food that had been left on the floor in front of the door, he didn’t get up to relieve himself until the sun had gone down and he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and he didn’t get up to beg someone, anyone, to talk to him by the door when the silence became so oppressive that tears sprouted unbidden from his eyes.

He  _ ached _ , and he was hard, flushed and confused, but he didn’t dare touch himself during those miserable six days, no matter how much his own treacherous body begged him too.

Only on the third day of the heat did he muster up the strength to drag himself off the bed and crawl over to the door, settling down with his bare back to the wall as he nibbled on a piece of slightly stale bread. He’d removed his sleeping chemise in one of the fever spells, and the cool of the stone wall felt divine against his heated skin. 

He tried a few spoonfuls of the amber broth with floating bits of celery, knowing that malnutrition would only bring about disease, but couldn’t stomach the stew. The smell alone was almost nauseating. 

The food was brought in and collected twice a day by a sullen looking old stern-faced maid, who was invariably silent and refused to meet Julian’s eyes. Julian had tried to talk to her the first couple of times, but had promptly given up after four resounding failures. 

When he was finally let out, after seven miserably long days, everything had changed. Niklas barely addressed him anymore, growing cold and detached wherever his younger brother was concerned and Liesbet… Liesbet just didn’t understand. She still treated him like the little kid that brought her wild flowers to braid in her hair on occasion (because their mother would tan his hide if he actually plucked flowers from the gardens), but most of the time she seemed as lost around him as he felt about his own self. 

He lost his standing in the throne line of succession (not that he was particularly inclined to rule, that job much better suited Niklas) and his princely education was taken away. Instead, it was replaced by mind numbing afternoons in the drawing rooms learning ‘womanly’ skills such as needlework and embroidery, which he was terrible at and ultimately refused to do. So, he throwed what his mother loved to call an ‘undignified temper tantrum’ and plopped down resentfully on the armchair near the window, gazing forlornly at the gardens with the ghost of a lute weighing in his needle pricked hands.

They still allowed him to play occasionally during the afternoons, usually as a reward for having done something to please his parents, such as behave during one of these deplorable banquets. An excuse for his father to flaunt the prized crown omega, really. 

He was a metinnese royal omega after all, which made him even more of a rarity and luxury. A treasure worthy of kings. What does he do, they ask? Why, sit still and look pretty, of course, when he’s not in the process of having his backbone fucked out of him by his alpha. 

There hadn’t been an omega in the metinnese royal line for over a century, the last one rumored to be the daughter of a great-great-uncle on his mother’s side. There wasn’t even a record of the last omega male, and he had looked  _ thoroughly _ .

After he presented, he took to the royal library in his leisure time, trading in his time with the lute to flick through the great dusty tomes. He felt the need to find some clarity on the history and status quo of his designation, but the material didn’t shed much of a light on the subject aside from telling him what he already knew.

He did learn some things though; all he knew of his presentation had come from those books, in fact. He’d tried to ask his mother about it one time, but after how harshly and bluntly he’d been shot down, he didn’t re-attempt it. Asking his father didn’t once cross his mind. 

According to some of the more scientifically inclined volumes he found, omegas were soft-mannered creatures, perpetually craving the attention and approval of their alphas. Everything in their bloody biology was designed to appeal to alphas; their lithe figure -- putting on impressive musculature was nigh impossible -- their inclination to submissive behaviour, their smooth features, less prone to sharp angles, and even down to their almost sickly sweet scent, which was at its most potent during the heats. Those periods handily coincided with the time the omega was at their most fertile. 

They were also described as simple minded creatures that cared little for matters other than of the sexually gratifying kind, reproduction and nurturing being their only drives.

In Julian’s opinion, these researchers had had very poor case studies, not to mention a griffin sized observer bias, and quite possibly a social desirability one as well. It probably didn’t help that all of the test subjects had been females handpicked from royal harems. 

He had found a bit of information, a few acknowledgments at best, of some plants that had a supposed effect on heats, diminishing their symptoms and sometimes even blocking them completely. He’d leaped at the opportunity of having some pretense of control over that aspect of his presentation, and scoured all the plant encyclopedias he already knew by heart in an attempt to better ascertain how he could harness it.

When he brought it up with mother however, he’d received such a smarting backhand that he’d been left him seeing stars for a moment . As it turned out, even suggesting such a thing was the highest form of taboo amongst the high nobility. His mother reprimanded him harshly, seething with indignation as she raved about how such potions would shrivel his womb and make him unable to bear; turn him into an abomination. And there was no place for abominations in Metinna, and certainly not at any court. 

His research on alphas came up with a lot more results, because of course it did. He skimmed through the obligatory self-aggrandizing hogwash and tried to pick out the most relevant details. If he was to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, there was a good change that he’d get landed with an alpha, and he wanted to at least know what he was going in for.

From what he gathered, alphas were the epitome of the male specimen, engineered to be stronger, hardier and more virile than normal betas. They were better endowed, possessed the stamina to sustain an omega through an entire heat and, apparently, had the ability to pop a knot. Julian had stared at the page for a good ten minutes after reading that particular bit.

He had to search through various tomes to find a single reference of alphas not being strictly male, which was vague at best, but none of the texts outright stated that the alpha designation had male exclusivity. Which either meant that female alphas did not, in fact, exist, which he found unlikely, or they were simply not interesting enough to be elaborated upon by the scientific community. Much more likely. 

There were also a few paragraphs on some prose books about biological bonding, much like duck imprinting but with more sex and less cute. As stated in the texts, compatible omega/alpha pairs could sometimes spark a connection, commonly after consummation of the union. 

The way bonds were depicted, their importance and ramifications, varied a lot hinging on the author and the tone of the narrative. 

In some novels they were characterized as a telepathic bond between both parties, ranging up from a simple empathic connection to categorical mind reading on either one or both sides. Some books defended that physical sensations could be transmitted through the bond, where others clearly stated that the only purpose of the connection was to make the mated pair permanently lust after one another.

There was one thing they all agreed upon though; once a bond was complete, which always involved a measure of good old-fashioned sex, it became irreversible and indestructible on all counts, lasting until both parts ultimately deceased. 

He also noticed a caveat about how omegas might or might not take ill and inclusively die if the alpha they were bonded to passed away. Gave the phrase ‘till death do us part’ a whole new meaning. 

Julian wasn’t sure on the veracity of those old wives’ tales, but if they were to be taken for truth, being mated to an alpha just presented another cage, of the biological variety, for him to be contained in. 

His research hadn’t bore much more fruit until he sneaked into the restricted part of the library, where the more controversial and secret revealing collections were kept. The plan to swipe the keys from the librarian took but a fortnight to conjure up, and relied heavily on the sacrifice of the man’s own clothing and a few selected books to the frolics of ale. They gladly ceded their pages to the cause. 

He was caught in an hour. It wasn’t one of his finest constructed plans. 

In his defense, he’d been fourteen.

The restricted volumes had been restricted for a reason. Other than the careful studied war tactics and strategizing of neighbouring realms, presumably acquired through less than legitimate means, he found a few tomes on royal omega line purity. There seemed to be a connection to some kind of power referred to as ‘the source’ in certain royal lineages, which only manifested in omegas. Aside from the metinnese ones, there were a few references of the same phenomena being registered in the citran royal line, with distinctive expressions.

That was about the extent of what he had been able to uncover before getting caught. The ensuing admonishment and discipline enforced by his father were decidedly not fun. He hadn’t been allowed to touch his lute again for close to a year. 

The little escapade also marked the end of his research. He’d been forbidden access to the library for months thereafter, and when he was finally allowed back in, it was under constant supervision and with the servants under orders to withhold certain more ‘improper’ volumes from him. 

Still, his little act of rebellion hadn’t been entirely useless. He found out that he possibly had a bit magic ability in his blood, which would be fine and dandy if the thing actually proved of use. Maybe it could provide him the ability of escaping his parents and that dreadful castle without being caught and further imprisoned. One could only dream. 

So far, he had been proving to be disappointingly and unimpressively human. 

He wasn’t sure if his father was aware of the situation, but he was fairly certain he had at least an inkling. He was under no delusions that they had waited for him to come of age to pawn him off simply because of some honorable sense of decency.

No, they knew he was the metaphorical golden goose. His father was merely biding his time, letting cocksure nobles present their offerings and quarrel amongst themselves to determine who brought the biggest contribution to the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions: children eating poisoness substances and falling ill, corporal punishments to children, a loose description of an underage heat (Jaskier is 13), isolation (during the heats), abstainance from eating (during the first days of the heat).
> 
> There will always be an undertone of rape/dub-con as a kind of normalized behaviour in some of the societies depicted (still negative but wide occurrence).


	2. Cintra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier recalls his trip to Cintra, where he met Princess Pavetta and her daughter, Cirilla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ the end notes for chapter specific warnings!
> 
> This is the chapter where I start messing around with canon (with that I mean completely disregard it xD). Anyway, Pavetta is 21 here (making her five years older than Jaskier), and Ciri is 6.

He was fifteen when he met Princess Pavetta. 

The end of the Nazair wars with Cintra had just been declared, with Queen Calanthe’s masterful victory at the battle of Hochebuz, and most of the adjacent southern kingdoms were called upon to a banquet in the capital, in order to re-establish alliances. It was more of a formality than a matter of state, really, but the invite had been addressed to the entirety of the immediate royal family and it would be in poor taste to disregard the summons at a time like this, just fresh off the horrors of war. 

Thus, he found himself on a coach to Cintra, with his sister Liesbet and her ladies in waiting. His parents and brother rode in the lead, and the most crucial members of the help and high nobility trailed in the back, the guards flanking the convoy.

It was his first time truly away from his homeland, and he couldn’t help the giddy excitement that fizzed low in his belly when they crossed the outer gates of the city. He plastered himself to the little quarter light, tugging the drape aside and ignoring the sidelooks shot his way as he drank in the sight of the seemingly never ending fields of golden wheat.

The climate this far south was warmer and a bit dry, but still not as arid as Nilfgaardian lands or the Kerath desert. Because of that, it was propitious to the blooming of butterfly weed, gayfeather and the occasional sunflower, which sometimes lined the main roads. It made for quite a beautiful view.

They passed through a great number of settlements, some in the distance and some up closer, and Julian could see the way the architecture and structure of the construction shifted from a metinnese pragmatic style to a more opulent and sturdy approach, typical of the nazair design. He found the sight fascinating, and much more worthy of his attention than the latest scoop on the royal scandals and hearsays his sister and her ladies kept droning on about. 

Staring out of that little coach to the rolling lands of pasture and mountains as they passed, he felt very much like the little boy who dreamt of adventure and travelling the continent with a horse and his lute.

The journey to Cintra took a grand total of ten days. They had mostly sought out monasteries and village castles for overnight accommodations, having been relegated only once to a slightly more rustic manor in one of the underprivileged regions. He didn’t mind it one bit, but he could see overt looks of distaste that crossed many of the nobles’ faces at being forced to bunk down in a simpler farmhouse. 

He had to share a room with Liesbet and her ladies, being the omega, and took the lumpy bed by the casement window on the upper floor, setting his things by the foot of the frame. He hadn’t brought much along, and they hadn’t allowed him his lute, so it was a quick affair. 

The night ended up being chillier than expected, as the stone structured house did little to keep out the cold even with all the hearths alight. They had to retrieve additional dusty looking and moth bitten quilts from the storage closet (and fight amongst themselves over the right to have them). He received one of the rattiest of the lot and snuggled up in it, staying up most of the night to look upon the margin of the Yelena. The river could be sighted running serenely between the mountain pass and the farmhouse, painting a calm and soothing picture.

Since that was likely his first and last opportunity to see a bit of the continent - he didn’t expect to be doing much traveling as a kept omega - he didn’t want to miss one moment of it. He had spent the majority of the next day dozing in the coach on account of it though, lulled by the rocking wheels of the cart over the street cobbles. 

By the seventh day however, Julian was ready to cry from the sheer boredom. He liked the travelling itself enough, but the means by which he was doing it were terribly tedious. Having to spend so much of the day sitting in that cramped carriage hearing all about how the duke of Tigg was caught frequenting proletarian houses of ill repute, and the countess of Brugge was rumored to be seen talking to voices inside her head, was not his ideal of a good time. He hadn’t grown tired of observing the sights, but the view from the quarter light was rather small.

He tried to beg his mother, and even his father (a testament to how truly fed up he’d been) to let him ride alongside the coaches, on one of the gentler bay geldings the marshal had brought along, but his requests had been unsurprisingly denied. 

He tried to busy himself with other things, composing songs lyrics in his head, devising melodies for said lyrics and humming them softly, but he found himself scarce on inspiration within those four confining walls. 

When he could finally discern the cintran walls from a distance, he jolted in his seat, effectively rocking the carriage and earning a few hisses of protest from the ladies and a pointed prod from Liesbet. 

He settled back down, eagerly drinking in the sight of the approaching illustrious city. 

Cintra was nothing like Metinna. The capital stood high and proud, loud and ostentatious in its might, great big arches decorated with delicate carvings and inscriptions towering above the streets. There were more people than he’d ever seen gathered together in one place, watching the arriving foreign convoys with curiosity and excitement, for the most part.

Even the scent of it was different. The air smelled heavily of salt and sea, crisper and moister than what he was used to, and countless seagulls assembled in clusters on the rooftops and up above in the sky. Some even stalked the streets, trying to scurry away with bits of fish from the merchant stalls. Their croons and hoots echoed loudly through the air, a surprisingly musical cacophony of sounds he delighted in hearing.

Back in Metinna, he’d only ever spotted the two or three stray gulls, and mostly from afar. It wasn’t customary for them to venture so far inland.

Sooner than Julian was expecting, they reached the high gates of the Cintran keep and the carriages rolled to stop in the front bailey. He fidgeted in his seat as he waited for the servants to open the door, antsy to finally be able to stand on his own two feet. 

He scrambled out after his sister, earning a few indignant yelps from the ladies, but he really couldn’t care less. He had to listen to their obnoxious drivel for over a week, the least they could do was grant him precedence while exiting the coach. His sister shot him a reproachful look, but kept silent as he took his place by her side. 

The castle was big, much taller than Metinna’s, and it stretched out into the skies, the highest peaks of the towers almost touching the clouds. It was an unforgettable sight. 

He went forth in wonderment, following his sister and the rest of his family to the castle’s ornate wooden doors while he swept his eyes over the grounds. The front courtyard was obviously well tended to, with lush bright-green grass and the smattering of flowery shrubs adorning the lawn. He immediately took notice of the lilac and baby blue hydrangeas, delighted with the opportunity of finally viewing the pretty vibrant flowers. They were unfortunately missing from his mother’s collection back in Metinna, as they didn’t fare well in drier weathers. He hoped he’d be allowed out there again, so he could study them with more care.

He bumped into Liesbet's back, not realizing they’d stopped while he’d been fully enthralled with the view, and she hissed his name in an chiding tone, fluffing her skirts to smooth out the wrinkles. He grimaced, glancing at his parents to see if they’d noticed, but Liesbet hadn’t spoken loudly enough for them to hear. His sister was kind, in that regard. If there was anyone in the family that ever occasionally stood up for Julian, it was her, and for that, he was grateful. 

She was always the one to argue his points and plead his case with their parents when the situation called upon it, because Melitele knows that if an omega voiced an opinion, it wasn’t valid until a beta or an alpha shared it as well. Of course she could never hope to have as much sway with their parents as their alpha older brother, and most of the time, her arguments also fell flat. Unfortunately, Niklas was growing to become as conservative as their father, although he still remained fairly quiet in all matters that concerned Julian. 

The great doors slid open smoothly, barely making any noise as they moved. The silence spoke volumes to the upkeep of the castle, who looked as if it had been finished but a few months prior. He was used to the dying cat shrieks the old doors in Metinna emitted. 

Once inside they were directed to the guest quarters, where he once more was assigned the same chambers as Liesbet. The space was big though, with dividers that separated the different rooms, each with its king sized bed, and the small common area. If they wanted too, they could spend a week in that room and not lay an eye on each other.

What followed were frenzied preparations for the night’s supper, where most of the royal families of southern kingdoms would be present — the Metinna family had been one of the last to arrive. 

The ladies bustled around the room, gathering the hair accessories and beauty powders to gussy up his sister. Julian took the opportunity to gaze upon the inner courtyards of the keep, and study the paintings and tapestries adorning their chamber. There was a little bookcase filled with poetry books by the door in the common space, and he skimmed through the titles, pleased to discover that some of them were unfamiliar to him. 

A bouquet of fresh calla lilies and red tulips on a crystal jar sat above the hearth, and he moved them to the side table to save them from the excessive heat. They’d dry up in an instance if left where they were, the poor things. 

Once all the preparations were complete, with his sister looking very much like the aristocratic princess that she was and Julian having changed from his travel clothes to a more formal cerulean blue doublet and hose set, they descended to the great hall. All the tables had already been set up in preparation for the grand banquet, which was to be held in two days, and were divided and spaced according to kingdoms. None of the nobility had taken their sits yet, as it was bad form to do so before the members of hosting House arrived.

He snatched a flute of champagne from one of the servants and followed his sister to join the rest of the metinnese royalty in their assigned corner, about halfway through the room. 

It didn’t take long for the queen to appear. She strolled into the great hall, clothed in a flowy golden dress that lightly grazed the floor as she walked; the perfect height so as to not hinder footwork. She had no corset, as the typical southern fashions dictated, and Julian briefly wondered if that was a way of preserving her movement range. He had heard that she was a queen well versed in the matters of the sword, and did not hesitate to demonstrate it. 

He recalled what he’d read about the cintran women; how they were raised alongside the men; taught to fight, taught to ride and taught to rule, regardless of hierarchy and social standing. How very liberal and democratic of them. If only Metinna could take their lead, perhaps they could even allow omegas some of those freedoms. Oh well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. 

It was also quite obvious, standing there in the imposing presence of the queen who radiated grace and power with her every stride, that the woman was an alpha. It was usually a thing he could perceive, like a sixth sense of sorts. Omegas were always attuned to the presence of alphas, as alphas were to omegas. Betas could only sniff out an omega if they were in heat, and could only really guess at alphas. Although it was fairly easy to predict who would be one; they all had that cocky and empowered look about them. 

He felt a touch of surprise at discovering the woman’s presentation - he has his suspicions that the scientific manuals he read weren’t being very truthful on the matter of female alphas, but it was still satisfying to see his speculations confirmed.

A man accompanied the queen by her left side as she approached, adorned regally in cintran colors but still bearing a distinctively skelliger breastpin. He seemed content to walk in her shadow, and Julian could discern nothing aside from respect and devotion on his face as he did so. The man must have been the prince consort Eist Tuirseach, Julian deduced, the beta skelliger that triumphed were few men before him had, and gained the queen’s affections.

On the queen’s right and trailing slightly behind was a striking young woman, with hair almost as light as driven snow, braided into a simple cintran braid that reached down to her waist, and eyes of emerald green. She held the hand of a child, no older than six, who bore to her an uncanny resemblance. Princess Pavetta and her daughter, Cirilla, it was plain as day. Rumours of their beauty and grace had not at all been exaggerated. He was mildly amazed at how regal and assured the princess appeared; if he hadn’t known her to be an omega, he wouldn’t have guessed it himself.

Calanthe moved with elegance through the hordes of nobles, who parted for her like the north sea did for Freya, shooting greetings and words of acknowledgment to each of the present royal households, who revelled in the attention.

Once she reached the Metinna royalty though, she paused, as if taken aback. She swept her eyes curiously over the gathered nobles, barely giving any of them a second look until her gaze landed on him. He jerked in surprise at the sudden scrutiny, blinking in bewilderment as the queen’s lips lifted in a small smile.

“What have we here?” She asked, a delighted tone to her voice. He felt his cheeks color, sensing how every eye in the room was locked on him, some of them very markedly not pleased. 

“Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz of the Metinna Lettenhoves, your highness,” he blurted out after a pointed look from his sister, dropping into a rushed courtly bow. 

“None of that,” Calanthe immediately said at his formality attempt, giving a flick of her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I had not been informed of the existence of another omega in the royal lines, and a male one to boot. Come, you must sit with us.” 

The queen advanced forward, clearly expecting him to follow and he gaped at her, jaw going slack with the unexpectedness of it. Why would she call on him, an omega, to share the royal cintran table with her? Was she intending on getting one for herself? Would she bargain with his father for the chance to take and bed him? She didn’t seem like the type, with how passionate she was said to be about her husband, but Julian had heard all kinds of stories. He knew not to let appearances deceive him. 

He swallowed nervously, and only remembered to follow the cintrans when Liesbet gave him a slight push. He fell in line behind the little ashen-haired princess, who turned to shoot him a few curious looks over her shoulder.

They made their way to the larger table set at the end of the hall, prepared with obvious care so as to look prominent and important. Julian kept his head down as they walked, not wishing to see what kind of looks the other nobles were shooting him for earning a seat at the hostess’ side. It’s not exactly like he’d _wanted it_. If only he could explain that to them - he could feel their sharp gazes burning the back of his neck as it was.

He waited for the cintran royals to be seated, and took his own chair on Eist’s right when the queen waved a hand in its direction. The rest of the room took their lead, and the servants started fluttering about, setting up the first courses.

“So, little Prince, how is Metinna?” Calanthe idly asked, breaking a piece of bread.

Julian’s eyes jumped to the queen, sat at the head of the table on his left where she could overlook the entirety of the great hall. He hadn’t expected to be addressed so promptly and openly. He opened his mouth, closed it again. It seemed an innocent enough question, but Julian had no idea what she expected from him. 

Princess Cirilla looked up at him with curiosity from the other side of the table while her mother, sat on Calanthe’s left, picked up her napkin and folded it in two, doing the same with her own right after.

“It’s... uh,” he trailed off, not sure how to respond. “Warmer, drier.”

The queen hummed, a hint of a smile toying at her lips as she regarded him. Not sure what to do with the attention, he grabbed for the wineglass and sipped on the light red. He never had much taste for wines, preferring to keep to water or a sweetened bubbly, but the others seemed to be favoring the red, so he tried his best to play the part. 

The prince consort took charge of the conversation then, and brought up various topics regarding Metinna’s court and politics. He even recounted a story from when he’d been there himself, during his grandfather's rule and before Julian was born. He didn’t have much recollection of the man, aside that he always seemed to smell like leeks, as he had died when Julian was a small child.

He hummed and provided the occasional word of agreement when called upon, but was considerably happier to be left out of the limelight.

The ambience at the table was different than he expected, more… intimate and homier than what he was accustomed to. The prince consort and the queen discoursed at ease, with her daughter piping in to offer the occasional insight and opinions. And the queen _listened_. More than that, they bantered and quipped at each other, even the little princess joined in with a witty remark and a toothy grin, made all the more adorable by her missing incisives.

Eventually the conversation turned back around to Julian though, with the Eist turning to him and smiling warmly. 

“What most caught your attention about our noble city, Prince Julian? It’s your first time here, surely something must have jumped out.” 

“Oh, I… I did notice when we were arriving the hydrangeas that you keep on the front courtyard. Mother could never get them to grow in Metinna, as the air is too dry for them, so I was pleased to finally see some,” he admitted, remembering the pretty blooms. “I also noticed the measure-me-nots and blue lotus on the way into the city…” 

He fell into silence, feeling his cheeks burning up as the queen contemplated him with a deeply bemused expression. He cast a look around the table, noticing that all the others had similar expressions of amusement in their faces.

“Flowers?” Calanthe chuckled, mirth dancing in her eyes. “We should take you for a stroll in the gardens then, I expect you’ll quite like it there.” 

Julian felt his cheeks color further at the remark, a little fearful that he’d offended the queen, but Calanthe didn’t seem to be insulted, more like entertained. 

“We have a wide arrangement of orchids and azaleas. Our druid can keep them growing and blooming even when the temperatures flutter,” Princess Paveta piped in, a kind smile on her face. “I can take you there tomorrow if you’d like.”

He hesitated, considering the proposal. The Princess seemed to be genuine, and none of the others had expressed disapproval about the idea; they mostly just seemed surprised and amused by his previous reply. It was also something he truly wanted to do.

With a formal phrasing of gratitude, he accepted the invitation and offered a tentative smile in return, being rewarded with a tale from young princess Cirilla about how she was once caught sneaking strawberries from the gardens by a man called Mousesack. He briefly wondered if the child was jesting, but no one showed any outwardly signs of entertainment or reprehension, so he assumed it was merely an unfortunate choice of name. 

The rest of the dinner went by peacefully, with some trading of stories and discussions of current topics. Julian even found himself becoming more participative, something which the queen appeared to be satisfied about.

The next afternoon found him in the gardens with princess Pavetta, like they’d agreed. She’d stopped by his room, offering a polite introduction to his sister who’d curtsied appropriately, before walking with him to inner courtyard. They passed various rooms and halls with portraits and busts that the princess took the time to explain whenever she noticed him staring. 

She took him to the greenhouse first, a place he was absolutely amazed to see. He had read about the conception in some of the horticulture manuals, but he’d never seen the contraption built first hand. It was truly a marvel. 

Princess Pavetta inquired about where he’d become so well versed in the topic of botany while they observed the geraniums, and Julian found himself remembering Mr. Kretrson with fondness, even recounting some of his tales without feeling the familiar talons of grief tearing at his heart. He spoke about the groundskeeper’s prior education with the druids of Ard Skellige, and how he’d passed on some of the knowledge to him. He even told her how he liked to pass the afternoons in the library back in Metinna, reading up on the plant encyclopedias.

The princess listened to him with attentiveness and understanding, offering a few words of solace when he explained the circumstances of Mr. Kretrson’s passing. She revealed that she also enjoyed spending her time in the libraries, sharing his passion for knowledge and literature, although she wasn’t quite as skilled as he was on the subject of botany - she prefered poetry. 

He asked about the whereabouts of the young princess Cirilla then, and Pavetta explained that her daughter was with Mousesack, who appeared to double as her tutor. For that reason, she usually had the afternoons for herself, which she liked to spend reading anthologies or listening to one of the court’s bards play when they visited. He confessed his love for music as well, something that the princess was thrilled to hear. 

“You play?” She asked, a delighted smile playing on her lips as they strolled past the leafy greens.

“I’m afraid I’m mostly self taught,” he admitted, feeling a hint of embarrassment at the Princess’ enthusiasm. “I learnt from books on theory and experimentation.” 

“You must perform for us sometime, Julian. We’d absolutely love to hear it!”

He agreed, if a bit sheepishly, and they fell back into casual conversation. She asked about some plants on occasion, pointing them out as they walked - because of curiosity or to test his knowledge, Julian wasn’t sure - but he did his best to provide the best descriptions he could, and she always seemed pleased. 

When they finished the tour of the greenhouse, Pavetta led him outside to a little hidden nook of the courtyard beyond the daffodils, teeming with hollyhock and snapdragon. 

“It’s my favorite part of the gardens,” she explained, casting a longing look over the blossoms. “Duny used to sneak in and meet me here before we wed. We’d sit over there and read stanzas from Callonetta’s _tales of the Yaruga_ while the sun set over great sea.”

Julian looked up from the indicated stone bench to the princess curiously, assuming that the Duny she spoke of was the alpha Lord she’d married. He’d been young when it happened, about 9 summers of age, but he recalled hearing something about a fight breaking out at a banquet amongst the suitors. It had been the talk of the kingdom back then, he remembered hearing all the nobles and the servants gossiping about it.

Pavetta spoke with true sorrow in her voice though, as if she genuinely missed her alpha, beside what was expected of her that is, as if she cherished the memory of him deeply. It was something Julian was having trouble wrapping his head around. 

“You… loved him?” he asked, a tentative note in his voice. He didn’t want to come across as rude and offend the Princess, who’d been nothing but nice to him - it wasn’t something he could say about a lot of people in his life. 

Pavetta turned a silent gaze to him, assessing and pondering. He weathered the scrutiny, fidgeting slightly under the attention, but holding her stare. Whatever she saw in him, she must have approved of, for she turned to glance at the sea, eyes shimmering in the light, and said, “I did. Very much.” 

Julian was surprised, to say the least. From his - admittedly limited - life experience, all alphas did was leer at him and make him feel as if he needed a bath to wipe their hungry gazes off his skin. He’d been told from the time he presented to never be caught in an alpha’s presence alone, not even the few guards that there were in the castle (his brother being the only exception). He dreaded the day his parents would finally cart him off to one, and he couldn’t imagine anyone being happy with that same fate. 

“I know this is difficult to believe, but here... things are different,” Pavetta started saying, looking at him to convey the seriousness in her words. “Mother will follow the old ways no more, and the people concur, for the most part. The tide is changing, and with it, so will we.”

“What do you mean?”

“The northern kingdoms have been fighting prejudice for long, Mother wishes to add gender presentation to the roster. To remind the people of times past,” she explained, turning back to fix her eyes on the horizon. “It wasn’t always like this, you know? Omegas used to be revered throughout the continent, appointed as consultants and hold places of power, before the reign of Heribert the first. We were demeaned due to our roots in Chaos.”

Julian frowned in confusion. He’d never heard any version of this story in all the books and journals he’d searched for information on the topic, although he’d be the first to admit that a lot of the stuff he read was plain crap, and Metinna’s library was hardly a fount of knowledge. Still, if what Pavetta was saying was true… he wasn’t exactly sure if it made things better or worse. 

“We will change things back, starting with Cintra. Mother has made her intentions for me to rule in her stead clear, even if most foreign sovereignties refuse to acknowledge it.”

“You will rule?” Julian blurted out, jaw slacking in surprise. He’d never even entertained the thought of such a notion being possible. An omega? On a throne? It seemed like a fairytale. “What of Eist?”

“Eist supports Mother, and me,” Pavetta assured him. “He’s sworn fealty to the crown and to uphold the queen’s wishes upon her passing. We’d trust him with our lives.”

Julian stared at her quietly, still too surprised to manage any words. The scenario that Pavetta painted, it sounded too good to be true. If something like that ever came to be, he knew he’d risk everything he had, his life included, to be a part of it. But it seemed like a far fetched notion, an impossible ideal. If Pavetta didn’t have the backing of Eist after the queen’s demise, since he could very well precede Calanthe in that regard, Julian had a hard time believing the court wouldn’t contend with an omega in charge. 

“It’s getting late,” Pavetta said. “The sun will soon set. It’s quite a view from here, isn’t it?”

Julian hummed, glancing at the zigzag of roof lines that stretched out far into the sandy beaches, lining the shores from north to south. There was a smattering of ships, big hardy ones bearing the cintran flag, the kind he’s only seen in book illustrations, and little humbler ones, probably belonging to fishermen, on the still blue waters of the great sea. It was indeed beautiful, and it instantly stirred in Julian some ideas on song verses and a melody. 

He tapped a finger on the outside of his thigh in rhythm with the conjured music, trying to memorize it. It was a habit he’d acquired, due to not having his lute with him most of the time inspiration struck.

“I imagine it’d be prettier from the shore,” he pondered, sparing a brief thought to wonder what the sand would feel like underneath his bare feet. 

“Hmm,” she agreed, then glanced back at him with disbelief painting her features, seemingly realizing something, “Have you never gone? To the beach, I mean?” 

“No, I haven’t.” Julian admitted, a flush creeping up his face. “ We have a river closeby in Metinna - the Sylte - but it still runs a ways away from the city. I’ve never seen it up close.” 

“You mean to say you’ve never been to the water?” Pavetta looked positively aghast at the notion. “You must come with us tomorrow. I’m taking Ciri to a sheltered little beach alcove near the docks. She loves it there.”

And so, once again, Julian was invited to spend the following afternoon with Princess Pavetta.

He met her in the great hall this time, after giving an explanation to his sister of where he’d be spending his day. She warned him that mother and father would not be pleased with his outings, and even though they couldn’t forbid it, not without offending the queen, they might exercise some form of punishment on him upon their return to Metinna. Julian knew this, but he didn’t care enough to fake an excuse and politely refuse the Princess. He wanted to go, he wanted to seize the opportunity while it was available to him. He doubted he’d get much chance in the future, and the beach always seemed like such a dreamy prospect when described in romance books and novels, he longed to see what it was really like. 

Pavetta and Cirilla awaited him by the entrance, the little princess jumping excitedly around her mother as they chatted about their afternoon. 

Pavetta smiled as she saw him approach, and reached for her daughter’s hand, telling her it was time to go. Cirilla turned to give him a radiant smile and Julian found himself returning it with almost as much excitement, a giddy happiness like the kinds he hadn’t felt for a long while settling in his stomach. 

He took their side as they exited the hall, escorted by a small detail of guards. They were to accompany them to the shore, Pavetta explained as they made their way to the outer grounds. They settled into an easy silence, listening to the child monologuing about her morning lessons and the almond cake she’d had after lunch - apparently the lion cub had the cooking staff wrapped around her little finger, and they were known to indulge her occasional requests whenever she sneaked into the kitchens. 

The crossed the front bailey and Julian, realizing that there were no coaches around, asked if they would be going on foot.

“Yes, I’m always fond of our little walks to the shore,” Pavetta said, laying a hand on Cirilla's ashen tresses affectionately as the girl beamed up at her. “And it’s a good outlet for all the energy Ciri has.”

Julian nodded in understanding, pleased with the response. He quite missed going on walks outside his own castle walls. Doing it again, here, gave him a sense of freedom that he long missed. They stepped out into the cobbled streets, Pavetta leading them through the maze of roads and trails that she seemed to know by heart. The guards kept their distance, but we’re still close enough to intervene if anybody decided to approach them. 

He was surprised to see though, that, for the most part, the people they came across in the street only gazed at the princesses in adoration and esteem. He didn’t receive one dirty look or leer that resonated uncomfortably with him. It was truly an otherworldly experience. 

“Look Mama! Those flowers look like parrots!” Cirilla giggled, pointing energetically at a little shrub near a seamstress’ shop as they neared the shore. “What are they?”

“You should ask Julian, dear. He knows every flower,” Pavetta said, making Julian’s cheeks color under the praise. 

Cirilla frowned at her mother’s response and turned to shoot him an assessing gaze, which looked quite adorable on a six year old. 

“You can’t know _every_ plant,” she protested, planting her hands on her hips. “There are hundreds!”

Julian smiled at the child. “There are quite a bit more than that,” he amended, making the princess’ eyebrows raise in surprise. “And you’re right, I don’t know them all, but those are birds of paradise.”

“So they are birds!” 

He huffed out a laugh, “I suppose so.”

After that, Cirilla made it her life’s mission to discover what flowers Julian _did_ know, spending the whole trek to the beach pointing them out and waiting for his reply. She always giggled in amazement when he supplied her with the names, clapping for him on occasion, and he found himself elaborating more on his responses, explaining what the flowers meant or referencing other interesting facts about them. Cirilla listened to his commentary with rapt attention, plying him with questions.

They were almost to the dunes when Cirilla tugged on his sleeve and pointed out a few yellow sprouts growing lonesomely by the roadside. 

“What flower is that?”

“Those are weeds, little cub,” Julian explained. 

“But they’re pretty,” the princess refuted, an adorably confused wrinkle between her brows. Julian chuckled at the child’s logic, finding it oddly charming. 

She let go of his sleeve, skipping over to the little yellow blossoms and crouching down to study them. The blue skirts of her dress brushed the ground as she appraised them, deciding which one to pick, but neither the princess nor her mother showed much concern at the prospect of dirty fabric. Cirilla plucked the brightest one from the soil, the one in full bloom, and trotted back over to them, holding the blossom carefully in her hands.

“What’s its name?” she asked, presenting it to Julian.

“It’s called a buttercup.” 

Cirilla’s face did a boggled twist at that. “Why?”

Julian smiled, a fond memory unfurling in his mind. He must have been about Cirilla’s age when he’d asked Mr. Kretrson that same question. He remembered how amusing he’d found the little game at the time, perhaps Cirilla would enjoy it as well. 

“Well,” Julian gently took the flower from her hands, being careful not to rumple to delicate petals. He leaned down to the princess' eye level, and held it beneath his chin. “See how it reflects yellow?”

Cirilla frowned in disbelief, peering up at him like he’d instructed her too. Her expression soon melted into one of amazement though, as she realized he'd spoken the truth. She let out a tiny gasp of surprise and reached for the flower, pulling it away from Julian’s skin. 

“It does!” she squealed in delight, “Why does it do that?”

“It’s telling me I like butter,” Julian confessed with a playful wink and an easy grin.

Cirilla squinted up at him in baffled amusement, letting out a giggle. “What? That makes no sense!”

Her little fingers snatched the blossom from Julian’s grasp and brought it down to her own chin. “Is it yellow too?”

Julian bent down, pretending to take a long while examining her jaw and adopting a studious gaze as he deliberated on the question. He let his face morph into an expression of astonishment and delight as he exclaimed, “Why, indeed it is! I have a feeling the little princess enjoys gobbling up her buttered sweets.”

Cirilla chuckled, charmed by his antics, and Julian plucked the flower from her hands, slipping it into her hair. The little princess shot him a winning smile and rushed to her mother, showing off her new hair accessory. He turned to Pavetta, who’d been watching the exchange with an amused expression and was now praising her daughter’s new look.

“You look beautiful, dear,” the Princess assured Cirilla for the umpteenth time, smiling at her daughter’s enthusiasm. It was quite a contagious thing, the joy of a child. “We must get going now, or we won’t have long at the beach.”

Cirilla nodded in somber understanding and reached for Julian’s arm, tugging him forward. “Come on buttercup man, we’re going to the beach!”

He laughed and went along with her, feeling light as the sea breeze and free as the gulls. 

Cirilla took off her shoes as soon as they reached the sandy shore, and then set off at a run towards the sea, getting the fringes of her dress completely drenched with salt water in the process. Julian was a little startled by the behaviour, but Pavetta seemed to pay no mind to it, simply warning Cirilla not to get her entire clothes wet or she’d catch a cold while heading back to the palace. 

Pavetta also slipped out of her footwear, gathering Cirilla’s abandoned flat shoes and placing them near her own on the sand. Julian decided to follow their lead, as there was no one around to tell him not too and it was something he also wanted to do. He kicked his leather shoes aside and let the soles of his feet bury in the fine grain beneath him, marveling in the feel of it. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before; the sand yielded beneath his toes, soft against his skin and molding itself to him.

That afternoon would go on to become one his most treasured memories. He didn’t remember the last he had had that much fun and laughed so genuinely he forgot all about his life problems, it was a heady feeling.

Cirilla’s first request was for them to help her build an accurate and awe-inducing replica of the cintran keep. She put Julian on seashell collecting duty as she piled up heaps of the moist sand near the water to use as her clay. According to the lion cub, it was the best kind of sand to build on, because it stuck together and allowed for detailed sculpting, she informed him with a studious and serious expression. 

They built the sand version of the palace, just like Cirilla wanted, and it didn’t come out too shabby either. The little princess soon moved on to her next project though, digging two holes in the sand side by side to make a tunneled passage beneath them. Julian assisted in the endeavor, aiding in the shoveling and offering suggestions. He then helped collect more of the moist sand so Cirilla could build the towering twin towers of the city’s temple. Soon they had their very own collection of pint-sized sand marvels. 

Pavetta reclined on the sand and watched them play around for most of the afternoon, prefering to bask in the sun and offer the occasional word of encouragement than to actively participate in the tomfoolery.

Once the little cub had had enough of beach constructing, she set out in search for crabs and sea stars, dragging Julian along. They found none of those, unfortunately, but they did come across a couple of bean clams. On Cirilla’s instruction, they both kneeled down to examine them, the rolling waves nipping at their feet as they watched the little shells flutter before burying themselves in the sand again. 

The little princess had taken to calling ‘buttercup man’, which her mother appeared highly amused about, joining in on the fun herself. Julian secretly loved it. He’d never really had a nickname before, it was nice to have that kind of familiarity with someone. 

They started the walk back to the castle when the skies began to turn, big dark clouds rolling in and covering the sun that was nearing its setting place in the horizon. This time the walk was much more silent and serene, the little cub having worn herself out on the beach and clinging quietly to her mother as they made their way up the coast.

The trip to the beach did not conclude their day though: once they’d made it to the castle grounds, Pavetta invited him up to her drawing rooms, as it had appeared that she’d secured a lute from one the passing minstrels, and wished to hear him play. Cirilla immediately perked up at the idea, turning to assail him with a pleading looks he had no defenses against. He caved thus, and followed them back up the flights of stairs to the royal rooms.

Pavetta’s drawing room was a serene looking chamber, painted a light blue color with cast-plaster ornaments and a decorated ceiling. It was beautiful and graceful but still achieved a modest and natural look, much like the Princess herself. 

The lute she spoke of was resting on the center table, a beautiful thing full of intricate carvings and the shine of polished wood. Julian yearned to know the feel of it in his hands, play its strings and let the music flow from him like the seawater they’d splashed in that afternoon. 

The Princess walked past and picked up the elegant instrument from the table, presenting it to him. Cirilla hopped over to the cabriole sofa and plopped down, resting her chin on her hands and kicking her legs out as she gazed up at him with an expectant expression. 

He took the lute from Pavetta’s hands, a smile he couldn’t hold back playing at his lips, and felt the familiar weight of it in his hands before heading over to armless chair and sitting down. 

He let his fingers rest over the lute strings, thinking of what to play. He closed his eyes, calling to mind the lyrics of one of his songs, and started plucked a melancholic tune he knew by heart.

He breathed in deeply, letting the slight chamomile scent of the room wash over him before he opened his mouth and sung out the first lines.

_“A field of mums I strolled at night_

_How sad I was, oh my_

_The skies above, they saw my plight_

_And wept themselves ‘til dry_

_“What ails you lad, I heard them ask_

_To them I turned and cried_

_They fit me here and closed the cask_

_My wings so clipped, denied_

_“Despite my pleas not being scant_

_To grasp they did not try_

_When I said nothing could supplant_

_A lark’s place in the sky”_

He kept playing the strings as he finished the verses, not yet ready to part with the tune, and hummed along with the melody. When he struck the final chord of the song and looked up from the lute, he was surprised to find Pavetta looking at him with an understanding and sorrowful look plain in her watery emerald eyes. 

“That was beautiful, Julian. Thank you.”

He swallowed and nodded in thanks, finding words hard to come by all of a sudden. Cirilla, too young to understand much of the song than its overall sad tune, jumped up to her feet and dashed over to him, showering him with eager requests to teach her to play something as well. 

Chuckling at the child’s enthusiasm and waving off the tears that threatened to gather in his eyes, he led her over back to the sofa. He sat by the cub’s side, showing her how to position the lute in her lap and pluck the strings. It was much too big for her, so he had to help her secure it and tilt it slightly upwards, but he did end up teaching her a few things. 

When he finally bid his goodbyes and returned to his room to get ready for supper, Cirilla was capable of strumming out a simple rendition of _the fair elven maiden_ ’s jig, which she proudly announced to anyone who came close enough to hear. 

That day put things in a different perspective for him. He’d always thought his future was a done deal: he’d be squirreled away by some duke with a potbelly and close to six decades under his belt, bear him a couple of heirs and be promptly widowed when the ale and fare proved too much for the old man’s liver. That or he’d be simply be carted off to be some Count’s concubine, discarded to the lowly village lord once he began to show his age. 

This though, it gave a different kind of hope. He shouldn’t hope that his future would be as blessed as to grant him a kind beta that he could love, or even an alpha that wouldn’t look at him like a piece of meat, but perhaps… perhaps he could have something like this. At least he’d have affection, because only a blind man would miss the ferocity of the love that burned fierce in Pavetta’s eyes as she tended to her cub. Not even the lioness of Cintra herself could beat that intensity.

The grand banquet itself was an uneventful and quite dull affair. There was plenty of ale and wine, and enough food to sustain a small army for a month, enough to make him feel bad for all the work the servants had put in preparing it all. Despite tensions ramping up at one point of the night, when one of the alpha Lords from the south - Geso, if he remembered correctly - made a less than kind remark about Pavetta, the man was promptly asked to leave, in no uncertain terms, and the room calmed again. Julian didn’t recall seeing the man again in the following days, so he suspected he was kicked out of the keep thereafter. 

He spent most of the banquet either near his sister or Pavetta, something his parents did not fail to notice. He could tell they weren’t pleased, probably because they knew of Queen Calanthe’s convictions and were decidedly not in agreement. No matter, he had made a friend for the first time in years, someone that understood his problems and shortcomings, and he wouldn’t be giving that up willingly, not when his parents had no actual way of stopping him. 

Pavetta spent most of the time shamelessly quipping at the nobles that dared patronize her and running a hilarious commentary on the present Houses, one that had Julian almost spitting out the sip of champagne he had just taken. 

The lion cub was present for the beginning part of the banquet, but was shooed off to her sleeping quarters, much to her everlasting dismay, once the meal ended and the festivities began. He promised to teach her how to play some more songs the next day to cheer her up, and she beamed at him, no doubt planning on holding him to his words. 

When the time came for them to return to Metinna, two days later, he felt as if he was leaving a part of him behind. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to his homeland, where the only true moments of joy he was allowed were found in his lonesome strolls in the gardens or the strings of his own lute. He wanted to stay so bad he felt tears gathering in his eyes and a dent forming in his heart as they prepared their things to go. 

Pavetta found Julian before they departed, and assured him she would keep in touch, write him letters speaking of Cintra and how little Cirilla was faring in her new quest to learn the lute. The little cub had come to see them off too, and Julian found himself holding back tears when she stepped forward and wrapped her tiny arms around his waist with no hesitation. The top of her head only came up to about his mid chest, and he brushed her ashed tresses back like he’d seen Pavetta do multiple times. 

His heart was heavy in his chest when he finally stepped inside the metinesse coach, retaking his seat between Liesbet and the padded wall, and watched the cintran keep getting smaller in the little quarter light as they drove away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions a canon underage relationship between Pavetta and Duny. Pavetta is a widow in this, and speaks briefly of her husband.  
> Jaskier also thinks on his fear of being 'handed off' to an alpha. He also wonders if Calanthe wants to bed him (she doesn't).  
> Other than that, I think this chapter is pretty fluffy, and it'll probably be the last for a while. 
> 
> \----
> 
> Emhyr who? Yeah, consider this a completely different version of that xD  
> Also did someone catch that games reference I threw in? ahaha


	3. The Black Banquet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ the endnotes for this chapter’s specific warnings! It’s a heavy one  
> ALSO please go read the intro notes again, since I’ve added some new information to it!
> 
> I’m back! And ready to jump into the frying pan ahahah  
> Sooo, I know I said Geralt would show up in chapter 3 but… well things got away from me and I couldn’t get there exactly yet. I promise he’s in the next one, though! Seriously! Pinky-promise!
> 
> Thank you so much to [ dragon_rider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider) for the beta work on this chapter!

The trip to Metinna went by much faster on the way back. It was probably Julian’s imagination, but the days seemed to fly by as they approached his homeland. Perhaps it was the knowledge that as soon as they arrived, things would return to normal -- to miserable. He hadn’t known how much he truly detested life in the metinnese keep until he got a taste of what it could be like in Cintra. But those days were gone now, maybe never to return.

The sky was dark, overcast, as the carriages rolled onto the front courtyard. Even though it was the beginning of the afternoon, little light was available to light their paths. An omen in itself.

He knew the following months weren’t likely to be agreeable. He’d completely disregarded his parents wishes in Cintra, exactly because he knew they wouldn’t be able to retaliate. But now they were back, out of the public eye, and he was as sure as he knew the great sea was blue that there would be hell to pay for it.

And hell there was. He hadn’t had a hiding for discipline since nearly the time he’d presented, when he was thirteen, and never one as vicious. His father had delivered the sanction himself.

They usually refrained from using physical forms of punishment -- no one wants a scarred omega, it subtracts from their beauty and value -- but they opened an exception in this case. Most of the marks disappeared within a week anyway. What cost him a great deal more was being confined to his room, with all his privileges -- the garden, his lute, the library -- revoked.

He was going stir crazy without anything to pass the time. He’d tried writing down some song verses and poems at first, but his journal was soon discovered and tossed in the fire for kindling. That stripped him of the will to compose quite effectively. He couldn’t even stop the tears that welled up in his eyes from spilling as he watched the pages burn in the hearth.

The work of about half a decade of his life, gone with the flames. It seemed almost too easy.

After that, lacking alternatives, he took to actually trying to stitch up something worth his while, much to his mother’s delight. He still sucked at it, but he managed a little satin stitched rose that he was moderately proud of. It was a little crooked sure, but it was as good as it was going to get. Probably.

The first letter arrived about two months after they’d returned from Cintra. The weather had been turning for a while by then, summer heat creeping in on them like the winter rain had beforehand, slow and steady. He was in his rooms when a servant came, carrying the envelope. He’d had a momentary spell of confusion at the courier not delivering it himself, but when he saw the broken seal bearing the cintran emblem he understood.

The letter was addressed to him, from Pavetta, and Julian had no way of knowing if it had been the first one she sent, but it was the first he received.

He’d been foolish not to expect his correspondence to be controlled. His parents wouldn’t want him revealing anything that could compromise them after all, or him receiving any information that wasn’t to their liking.

The letter itself was harmless enough, no doubt the reason why he was allowed to read it, as it spoke simply of Pavetta’s recent days and young Cirilla. Apparently the lion cub had taken to pestering her grandmother for lute lessons -- Julian had left quite the mark on her. Unfortunately, all the court instruments were much too large for the hands of a six year old, and she struggled with the mechanics of the playing itself.

Queen Calanthe had commissioned a luthier to devise a special lute for the child, one that fit her proportions, and it was to be her gift on her seventh birthday, which would be held a few months from then. Julian wished he could be there, but he knew such desires were moot.

He chuckled at the letter regardless, remembering the young princess’s tenacity. He had no doubt in his mind that she would make it her life’s goal to master that lute, perhaps even best him at it one day. Such is the competitive nature of lions, after all.

He sat down, retrieved his inkwell and set about writing a reply. He wrote two letters to Pavetta. One he sent through the official means, giving it to the servant to be submitted for approval before his parents. The other he stashed away, waiting for a specific courier to come to the castle. Mr. Larlalt was the one he’d bribed once to get him his lute, and he was banking on the man agreeing to deliver the other letter without the knowledge of his father, just as long as he had good enough incentive.

In the second letter he explained the situation: how any messages she sent were not sure to reach their destination and how he had no way of knowing how many of his would be delivered. He dug up some silver plated cufflinks to pay off the courier and gave him the letter, hoping it would reach the princess.

He received a response about a month later, another innocent enough letter that didn’t raise any suspicions. It had a doodle of a single flower -- a buttercup, it looked like -- drawn in the border. A message for him. He would wager Pavetta had gotten his second letter and this was an attempt to let him know it.

They kept in touch after that, with unassuming letters that cleared his parents’ examinations. To the inattentive eye they were normal, perhaps a little strange if one was unaware of the recipient, for how much the subject of flowers came up. But everyone in the castle knew of Julian’s interest in the matter, and that was likely the reason no one had thought to bat an eye at it.

In truth, Pavetta tried to sneak him messages through the language of flowers sometimes, combining symbolism and metaphors to get her meaning across. He was a bit concerned that his parents would catch on, but months went by, eventually years, and still they remained none the wiser.

When Pavetta’s twenty-third birthday was coming up, about two years after the banquet, Julian started working on a shawl to gift her with. He picked out a nice teal-blue colored tissue and adorned it with pretty floral embroidery -- the best his abilities allowed him to create, that is. He put in some hollylocks, her favorite, and added a few buttercups and dandelions to the mix, trying to make it as colorful and elegant as possible. He even asked his sister to correct some of his stitches when he got the strings all jumbled together, which she readily corrected.

In the end it turned out quite beautiful, if he did say so himself. He finished it just in time too. He delivered it along with a letter to the couriers and waited excitedly for Pavetta’s reply, hoping she would like it. The response came a few weeks later, thanking him profusely for the present. She said it complemented her dresses beautifully, having already worn it multiple times, and told him how Cirilla had already taken a shine to it and pilfered the accessory on occasion.

He grinned like a loon at the letter, a sense of pride gripping his heart, and stored it away among some other hidden goods in a nook of his room -- mostly some new song journals he’d acquired after his last had turned to ash and some stolen books from the library. He wanted to make sure the letter would stay with him, that no one could take it away.

Things went by somewhat normally in the following years. He kept trading correspondence with Pavetta, as he got older and grew more aware of the state of things, both in the outer continent and in his home.

When he was eighteen, his sister was betrothed to the count of Temago, a vassal state of Metinna. He didn’t know much about the alpha lord, only that he had a reputation for debauchery and promiscuous behaviour, a regular among the red light district of the region.

The news were curtly delivered to them over supper one night, taking Julian by surprise. He knew him and his siblings were nearing marrying age, but the thought and its implications hadn’t truly dawned on him until just then.

Liesbet was awfully quiet during the whole affair, eyes cast down and spoon trembling slightly where she gripped it in her closed fist. She put the silverware down, smoothing the tablecloth underneath in an absent-minded motion, and steeled her gaze, lifting her head to stare emotionlessly at the stone wall before them. Her eyes had always been her most expressive feature, cornflower-blue just like his, but now they stared ahead, carefully blank and guarded in their coldness.

He remembered glancing at his brother and noting his similarly impassive face, but he knew Niklas well enough by then to recognize he wasn’t happy with the news either. He didn’t say anything though, and neither did Julian. There was nothing he _could_ say that would change things, in the end.

They were royals and had obligations, marriage was a contract for them, a business transaction, matters of the heart factored not in the equation. That went doubly for him, being an omega -- no high-born Alpha would seek him out with the intent of having an advisor at his side, as it sometimes happened with beta women, he’d be a bed warmer, at best a vessel for the perpetuation of the royal line, even if an expensive one. What good is it to be rare and coveted if all it grants him is more imprisonment?

The second thing that occurred to him was that his sister’s engagement meant she’d be leaving the castle for Temago. Leaving him. He felt a twinge of guilt over feeling more worried about that prospect than his sister being married off to someone she obviously did not favor, but he could not help the dread that gripped him at the thought.

What would he do once she was gone? She was always the intermediary between him and his parents, his one chance to have his opinions somewhat expressed. He’d truly be alone in that castle once she left.

He did his best to ignore the growing pit in his stomach and turned his attention to the roast lamb on his plate. They ate in silence, as they normally did, but the room was markedly charged with tension and hostility, every scrap of the cutlery on the porcelain dishes a deafening screech in his ears.

That night, when he retired to his room, he heard the distinct sound of muffled crying from Liesbet’s chambers, quiet and soft. He paused in the hallway, glancing hesitantly at his sister’s door. He didn’t know how receptive she’d be to him at the moment, but he felt like he owed her at least an attempt at comfort. He stepped towards the door, the old floorboards creaking loudly under his feet in the silence of the night, and the crying hitched.

He reached toward the handle and pushed the door open, peeking inside. Liesbet was facing away from him by the writing desk, and from her position -- half-turned in the chair itself -- it was clear she’d moved when she heard him come in. Certainly to hide her tears, as she was now rubbing furiously at her eyes. He didn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry, but he was certain they’d been very young, no more than ten summers on them both for sure. It was quite disconcerting to see it now.

She had her knees pulled up to her chest, feet bordering on the edge of her seat with the fabric of her nightgown crumpled underneath. Her long brown hair was loose against her back, bushy and dishevelled from the braids she’d been sporting over dinner. It was strange to see it as anything less than perfect and immaculate, she always kept it brushed and tidy, using a variety of oils and concoctions to keep every flyaway in place. It spoke volumes to the state of her mood if she hadn’t even even felt the need to pick up a brush and tame it down. She looked uncharacteristically young and scared, as a small child would.

The sight left an unsettling twinge in the pit of his stomach and a bad taste in his mouth. There was just something that struck him as plain _wrong,_ seeing Liesbet in a plain state of distress. It was never like this. She was the one who knew better, the one who always warned him and set him straight when he didn’t want to listen _._ But he wasn’t the one in the vulnerable position this time around -- she was. And he had no idea how to deal with the sudden inversion of roles.

He trod softly to her side and pulled up an armchair, deciding to sit and wait silently by her side in lack of a better alternative. He had no true words of comfort to offer her, seeing as no platitudes would fix her situation. All he could give her was his understanding silence.

She shrank back on herself and sniffled at first, but his patience paid off a few minutes later when she turned to face him, eyes tinged red and watery with unshed tears. There were wet tracks on her cheeks, shimmering in the candlelight.

“Thank you,” she breathed, a waver in her voice.

“No need.” He tried to shoot her a small comforting smile and counted himself slightly successful when the corner of her lips twitched upwards in response.

“Will you give this to Isaak?”

He glanced at the writing desk, following her gaze, and saw the piece of parchment resting atop it. A letter, for a boy apparently. He gave it a closer look and noticed the ink smudges and wet stains on the paper, realizing that his sister had been crying over it.

He raked his head for that name, going through every noble and lower-born that visited their court and coming up with nothing. The name seemed familiar, though. Where had he heard it before?

The answer came to him abruptly. Isaak, the beta stable boy that saddled their horses. He’d seen him around plenty of times tending to his father’s Zerrikanian bay geldings and Nazair chestnut mares. What he hadn’t realized was how close he’d been with his sister. He’d noticed Liesbet spending a lot of time with the horses lately, but she’d always had a passion for riding and it never even occurred to him that she could’ve had an ulterior motive for hanging around the stables.

The knowledge took him by surprise, he’d never expected his sister, who always strived for the excellency of the royal title, to fall for a member of the help. The unlikeliness of it was baffling, and made him see her in a different light.

He was curious about the new information, but he knew better than to prod the matter at a time like this. By asking him to deliver that letter for her, she was already entrusting him with more information than she could possibly be comfortable with. If their parents caught wind of her illicit romance with the boy, gods knew what they would do to him. It would reflect badly on the crown, after all.

“I can’t--” she faltered, biting her lip. “I can’t give it to him. I’m to leave in a couple of days for Temago and I know that if I see him, I won’t…”

“I’ll do it.”

She looked at him briefly and nodded in gratitude, glancing back at the parchment. There was an emptiness in her eyes, something cold and hardening, and Julian hoped it wouldn’t be permanent.

“Do it-- Do it after I’m gone, please.”

“If that’s what you want,” he agreed easily.

“It is,” came the whispered reply, so long after that Julian took a second remembering what she meant.

They settled back into silence and Julian cast a look across the room, looking for his sister’s silver plated hairbrush. He located it on top of her dresser, and got up to retrieve it. His sister glanced at him when he moved, but turned back towards the desk when she realized he wasn’t leaving the room.

He returned with the brush in hand and stood behind her, pulling out her hair from where it was trapped between her back and the chair’s and brushing it down. Yet another thing they hadn't done in many years. He busied himself with making the thick chestnut locks sleek and silky again, bringing the brush up and down in smooth soothing motions. He’d forgotten how calming it was to tend to her hair.

“You’ll have to be careful, with me away,” his sister said, breaking the silence. Her voice was surer now, more determined. “You can’t antagonize father, Julian. Or mother.”

He paused in his motions, gritting his teeth. He knew what she was doing, what she was trying to warn him about, but it was the last thing he wanted to discuss right now.

“It’s not like I do it on purpose,” he replied, resuming the brushing maybe a little more forcefully than necessary. “They treat me like--”

“I know it’s hard, I know you feel wronged. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s the way of things here. There’s no use in trying to push back when all it’ll grant you is more hardship.”

“So what are you saying then?” he asked, huffing in frustration and stepping back to drop the brush on the end table with a thwack. “I should play the nice and meek omega and spread my legs for the first alpha Mother and Father sell me off to?”

“Don’t be crude,” she scolded reflexively.

“It’s the truth.”

She let out a heavy sigh and her shoulders drooped, as if accepting defeat.

“I know. Promise me you’ll still try.”

“Fine,” he bit out, dropping back into his chair and casting his eyes up to study the hanged painting of their grandfather with forceful intent. An attempt to keep the furious tears that stinged in his eyes at bay.

“You’re stubborn and intelligent, Julian, a combination of attributes that is hard to come by regardless of presentation. You can make that your advantage instead of your hindrance. Play their game, and only make your own rules known when they’re in too deep to bow out.”

He sat in silence, trying to absorb her words and discern their meaning. He wasn't sure he quite understood what she was trying to get across, but he thought he might get it with some time and experience one day. Perhaps.

They stayed together for a few hours more, definitely past the time it was socially acceptable for them to be awake anymore, and, when Julian returned to his chambers, his stomach was heavy with dread for the change the next days would entail.

* * *

With Liesbet gone from the castle, he dedicated more of his time to his correspondence with Pavetta, with the occasional letter also being sent to his sister. Things got a little harder without Liesbet’s tempering presence at first, but he adapted.

Talking to Pavetta was easy, like breathing. He felt free when he wrote, for he knew that whatever he said, subintended, she’d understand and accept. Everytime he sat down with his inkwell to write a reply, he felt a little bit of Cintra with him. He remembered Cirilla's toothy grin and the little nook filled with snapdragon and hollyhock, the sand underneath his feet and the hoots of the gulls on the beachside, and he smiled.

It was about a year after that Pavetta’s first warning came. It came disguised as flower mentions, of course, and he took a while deciphering what she meant, but the whispers running around the castle eventually helped him understand.

_The sun has been burning much too bright the last couple of weeks. The black dahlias have bloomed, improbably, but I fear the rest of the plants are resenting the heat._

Those had been the two simple lines, hidden away in the bulk of the letter. Unassuming, but very meaningful.

Dahlias themselves were very elegant, considered to be a beauty of rarity, and also very absent from the cintran royal garden. Or at least they had been when he’d last been there, which was admittedly a few years ago.

While they generally had positive symbolisms, if they were black they transmitted betrayal and dishonesty, both very unsettling messages. He wasn't sure what she was trying to tell him, didn’t understand why she had slipped the words in without further elaboration, until he caught onto the other clues. The sun, the color of the dahlias, it all bore more meaning than the symbolism itself.

Nilfgaard -- _the black sun_ \-- they’d advanced north, taken Ymlac and Rowan and overthrown their kings. It seemed war was brewing again, instigated by an usurper - _betrayal and dishonesty_ \- and if they kept marching north, it wouldn’t be long until they were at his doorstep. And Nilfgaard didn’t take prisoners -- one of the things he remembered clearly from his time being tutored -- they killed everyone and everything in their way, and razed whole cities to the ground while doing it.

The air grew thick and heavy with fear and uneasiness in the castle. People stopped talking as much, and, when they did, it was always in a hushed voice, as if they’d trigger the war if they hit a note too loud. Perhaps they feared his father’s reaction. He had yet to make any announcements or declarations, or even acknowledge the trouble brewing in the south.

The looming threat of an approaching war became a constant worry in the back of his mind, stark and brazen, but there was something else gnawing at him for those next couple of months. He had sat down in his room one day, pulled out the old letters he had exchanged with Pavetta, intending to give them a re-read and get his mind off things, and it was only while he looked through them that he realized how much less Pavetta was bringing her daughter up recently.

At first he brushed it off. He figured it was just because Cirilla was growing up -- she’d have about ten winters on her by then, probably becoming more independent -- and the looming threat of war was making her worry about other pressing matters, but it still seemed off somehow. Pavetta adored her daughter, there wasn’t one letter in the past where she didn’t address her for some reason, even if it was just to say she’d been in her presence while she wrote. In the latest ones though, there was at best one mention every other month.

He was a little worried something had happened to the young princess, but, everytime he asked, Pavetta was quick to dismiss his worries with some quick story about the cub’s latest misadventures and exploits. It was odd. And the recounts were half-hearted, he could tell. There was something else going on for sure, but, whatever it was, Pavetta wasn’t disclosing.

Tensions grew in the following months, as Nilfgaard continued advancing north, taking Gemera, Etolia and Vicovaro. Everyone was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, in a state of constant anxiety. His father started spending the days in the strategic room, with Niklas and his advisors, but by the look on their faces every time they emerged for lunch and supper, the outlook wasn’t good.

Liesbet came to visit them a few times, to announce her pregnancy and for her husband to discuss matters of state with their father.

Julian’s eyes almost bulged out of his head when he first saw her heavy with child. She’d been a little tired, likely from the trials of child-bearing, but seemed well overall. A little more subdued and quiet than she’d been before, perhaps.

She never gave him a straight answer when he asked about her life though, no matter how hard he pushed. He stopped trying after a while, accepting her silence. He knew there was no getting his sister to talk when she didn’t wish to.

He helped her go over baby names -- boy names, because she insisted it was one; _A mother knows these things, Julian —_ And even gave her some opinions on the little blanket she wanted to stitch up. At least she seemed happy with the child.

She left back to Temago a couple of weeks later, when the issues her husband meant to discuss with their father were resolved, or temporarily fixed. He didn’t know, no one told him anything anymore. Not that they did before.

Pavetta’s warnings started coming again a couple of months later, this time even more explicit. So much so that he was afraid their means of ulterior communication would be discovered. Nilfgaard was closer to Metinna every day that passed -- he managed to gather from both the letter and the rumours going around -- and his father was hankering to gather the backing and support of other kingdoms. Which meant there would be deals and alliances forged, and the best way to go about getting something you want is to offer something else in return. In royalty, that frequently involved marriages.

Which was how he realized what his father was gearing up to do. His time was officially up. Of course they only informed him of his impending trade off a mere week before the fact. A banquet was to be held, with representatives from all over the continent -- if what he was told was to be believed -- where his father would form an alliance to back them in the upcoming war, through selling off his only omega son.

It appeared that his father already had his mind set on who to auction him off to, though. What he gathered from various sources and unknowing informants, mostly through some bouts of eavesdropping, was that the king ultimately intended to secure Radovid’s support in the wars. Which meant the banquet was simply a formality, and possibly a way to make his own prize go up when confronted with other suitors.

These were not reassuring news in the slightest. King Radovid had a reputation, none of it flattering. Although he was known for his ruthlessness in battle and rule, it was rumored that his tastes in bed-partners were much more sadistic. He obviously wouldn’t meet the fate the poor beta girls who were carted off to his bed from the surrounding brothels were said to have, but he had the feeling what expected him wasn’t all that better.

His sister and her husband came for the banquet, arriving a couple of days before the event. Liesbet had already delivered her child, a healthy baby boy like she’d insisted he’d be, who was left with the nursemaids at Temaro due to his tender age. His sister looked well, recovered from the ordeal of the birth, and greeted him with a solemn expression, a wrinkle of worry between her brows.

He heard her talking to father and Niklas that same night, through the thick door of the strategy room. He’d only been passing by really, but once he heard them argue, he’d paused, stepping closer to hear. They were discussing him, of course.

“That omega is going to Radovid and that’s final,” he heard his father’s deep baritone echo through the hall. “Do you have any idea how much Redania’s support would aid us in the war? It’s about time that miscreant fulfills his purpose and presents some useful service to his family.”

“But father, you’ve heard the stories. You know what will happen! There are other kingdoms who would provide you with just as good assistance as --””

“Enough!” his father roared, making Julian wince. He knew from experience that his whole face would be red as a tomato from anger, right up to the tips of his ears. “The stories are just that. Stories. I will not jeopardize the future of this kingdom based on idle gossip and hearsays. The boy will go to Radovid.”

He didn’t stick around to hear the rest. He ran towards his chambers, a heavy weight settling in the pit of his stomach and his eyes stinging from what he told himself was the air currents in the halls.

He spent the next two days in a daze of misery and resentment, holing up in his bed chambers and refusing to come out to the drawing rooms and the grand hall for meals.

Some servants brought him trays of food for supper and lunch, and he ate them silently and spitefully on his bed, his journals strewn around him, as well as the letters he kept from Pavetta. He read all of them again, committing to memory every detail he could, for he was unsure if he would ever lay eyes on them again once the banquet came to pass.

He’d try to take everything with him, of course, but he suspected it would prove difficult to smuggle such large amounts of parchment in his luggage. They’d probably be confiscated.

The dreaded banquet eventually arrived, and with it two handfuls of carriages bringing foreign representatives to their land. Metinna hadn’t seen such action in a very long time, well before Julian had even been born. It wasn’t just foreigners though, a dozen of local high lords had shown up as well, a few Julian even remembered from kingdom councils in his youth.

He’d avoided most of the welcoming festivities, so he lost track of who was showing up for the banquet. That was why he was so surprised when he descended to the great hall on the evening of the official event and caught sight of someone familiar.

He did a double-check, pausing in the entrance in surprise, but sure enough, there he was. Eist, the prince consort of Cintra stood amongst the rest of the representatives, a glass of red in his hand.

Eist shot him a small smile as their eyes met, soon followed by a wink. Despite himself, Julian began to feel something he had long abandoned -- hope. If Eist was here, it meant Cintra was willing to bargain with his father for his hand. And unless he was very wrong and had misjudged his entire stay in Cintra and all those years henceforth that he kept correspondence with Pavetta, they weren’t here to saddle him with an alpha, but to grant him sanctuary.

Julian felt a grin of true joy tugging at his lips, but did his best to conceal it from the crowds as he headed further in the room. It would do no good to let the rest of the contenders -- and especially his father -- know he was pleased by this turn of events.

He was fairly sure his parents weren’t happy with the presence of Cintra in the banquet, not with the way they’d reacted all those years ago. They’d never been fans of Calanthe and her rule, but maybe Cintra’s proposition would be enough to sway them and save him from Radovid.

Cintra was powerful all on its own, after all, and with the force of Skellige behind them, they were a force to contend with. Father and Metinna would be greatly benefited with that kind of power backing them.

Nothing was guaranteed, though. And he knew his father’s spite was a thing of legend. He could see him choosing Radovid over Cintra simply because of the hardship it would bring Julian. For now, however, all Julian needed to do was get through a night of posturing and condescending alphas. Nothing he hadn’t already been dealing with his whole life.

* * *

The night was turning out to be as awful and tedious as he’d predicted. He’d already had to find a polite way of blowing off two alphas that wouldn’t take no for an answer when he gave them increasingly flimsy excuses for why he wasn’t feeling up to dancing. _No I don’t want to give you an excuse to feel me up while I’m forced to twirl around in this over-constricting doublet and these harrowingly painful new shoes I was forced to put on to parade in front of you._

As a last diversion attempt, he headed to the side-table littered with the largest variety of delicacies he’d ever seen in Metinna. At least when he was stuffing his face with food, alphas tended to leave him alone.

He cast his eyes over the assorted plates on the table, which is where he found himself now, debating on the choice of food.

With a sigh, he finally takes one of the little egg delicacies and snatches a flute of _Metinna Rosé_ before someone can shoot him a disapproving look. He needs some alcohol in his blood if he is to get through the night without hissing at the next count that tells him how lovely he would look in the fine toussaint silks and mahakam jewelry they could provide for him.

He pivots and tries to sneak off to a nice unpopulated corner. Unfortunately, his scheme is foiled by one of the contemptuous suitors. The man -- what was his name again? Jalm, Jagilm? -- eyes the glass in his hand and shoots him an insidious grin, dark eyes sparkling with barely contained greed.

He’s the heir to one of the minor vassal kingdoms of Temeria, a backwater land that his father wouldn’t give the time of day to. He’s merely here for appearances sake, but it’s not like Julian can tell him to fuck off without marring the good name of the Lettenhoves.

He offers a pinched smile in return, the best he can manage at the moment, and pauses in polite compliance.

“Your grace.” He gives a small almost imperceptible nod of his head, a ridiculous pretense of a bow if Julian’s ever seen one.

Alphas and their precious sensitivities, scared of losing masculinity points by giving an omega a show of reverence. What a joke.

If Julian was anything other than an omega, the impertinence would be treated with a swift kick to the arse all the way to the outer gates of the keep and a banishment from the lands for the foreseeable future. As it is, bowing to him is merely a display of courtesy, an indulgence to an omega’s whim that can be waived if the alpha so wishes.

“I see you’re a fan of the liquors,” he says, raising his own cup in an acknowledging motion.

Julian’s smile grows strained.

“Would you give me the honor of the next dance,” he asks, eyes roaming immodestly over Julian’s body. He’s obviously hankering over a chance to get his hands all over the prized metinnese omega.

“I’m afraid I’m much too tired for a dance at the moment,” he rebuts, still donning the posed smile. His mouth muscles are starting to hurt from all the charading. “I must rest my feet.”

He pushes past the alpha before the man can launch into a monologue about his undoubtedly abundant merits and proposition him for other ways to pass the time. The count looks displeased, but Julian cannot find it in himself to care. He just wants this night to be over.

He knows his father doesn’t actually intend to hand him over to any of these sycophants -- not that such plans would be shared with him if he hadn’t come across them accidently, even if they concern his own future -- but if he did, his best case scenario would include: being squirreled away by some duke with a potbelly and close to six decades under his belt, bear him a couple of heirs and be promptly widowed when the ale and fare prove too much for the old man’s liver.

At least under his future children’s charge, he would have assumingly been granted a modesty of freedom, that is if he didn’t have the (mis)fortune of bearing more omegas.

As much as he loads to admit it, even that outcome would be preferable to a future as Radovid’s bed warmer, and if it would’ve made any difference, he might have even begged his father for it.

He walks swiftly and determinedly to the line of chairs in the back, trying his best to discourage any other counts from approaching him and engage in further grueling conversations.

There are a few beta noblewomen congregating by the chairs, gossiping amongst themselves about whatever noblewomen usually gossip about. They shoot him some looks as he passes, but he doesn’t have the energy to return them.

He’s about to reach a nice little spot, far away from most of the alphas still engaged in cock measuring contests, when muffled cries of alarm ring out from outside the great hall.

The room falls into stunned silence, people looking at each other with general looks of confusion and uneasiness on their faces as the commotion noises continue to rise.

Julian bristles as tension builds in the air, just like the crackling before a lightning strike.

The guards in the hall exchange some anxious looks amongst themselves and grab for their swords.

He shoots a glance at his parents, who are regally sat on the dais with his older brother Niklas and leaning out of their seats in alarm, before turning back to the great hall’s entrance. A heavy feeling sets in his stomach, and then the grand doors slam open.

The hall erupts into chaos.

A torrent of armored men storm in, brandishing steel swords and shields and pouncing on the people closest to the entrance. Tables are overturned, ale and food spilling on the floor as the alphas and betas shoot to their feet, the ones that possess weapons unsheathing and wielding them.

The ones nearest the front don’t stand much of a change, as the invaders charge forward and cut them down before they can even get their swords out of their scabbard. Julian sees steel glimmering in the air, a sword with an arm still attached crashing to the ground, and red wine mixing with blood on the floor tiles. And he stands frozen in place, staring as the guards try to converge on the armored men to stop the massacre.

The noblewomen scream bloody murder as they huddle together in a corner and the men clamor as they stand to fight. Julian even catches some of them pulling the decorative swords from the wall from the corner of his eye as he starts backing away, panic taking over his body.

He can feel his heart beating a thousand miles per minute, and the adrenaline flooding his veins and his brain, so hard and fast that he can barely think anything besides _dangergodsdeathhelp._

His back hits something hard and he realizes he just backed himself against the wall behind him. His eyes shoot wildly across the room, taking in the fight without really processing it.

The men are all wearing black armor; black chain mail, black gauntlets, black helmets. And he can see a sun painted on their breastplates, the ones not soiled enough with blood to hide it, that is. Nilfgaard.

Looks like they’re a little too late to prevent war from reaching their doorstep, this whole banquet was a waste of time.

He catches sight of Eist then, fighting the hordes that keep coming from the door. It’s like a never ending river of a black. They just keep coming, swarming, like ants. There’s a barricade of bodies forming at the entrance and some of the nilfgaardians are getting past the front lines, charging on the women and betas that had stayed behind.

He inches backwards along the wall, watching in mute horror as a nilfgaardian drives a sword through Eist’s chest. The prince sags against the soldier, who yanks the blade and shoves him aside. Eist tilts to the side and drops to the ground, landing atop a headless body.

He doesn’t move again.

There are screams ringing out in the hall, echoing off the walls in a cacophony of panic and terror, so loud that he can feel his ears buzzing. It takes a while for him to realize his own voice is adding to the chorus.

He wheezes, feels something wet run down his cheeks and his first instinct is to think it’s blood. He brings his hands up to check, but they’re just tears, although blood is sure to be running soon.

He forces himself to look away from Eist’s still form on the ground, glancing around the room to assess the situation. The metinnian forces are getting decimated. There are dozens of bodies littering the ground, women crying over bloodied corpses before getting their own throats cut and collapsing on top of the person they mourned, their bloods mixing together.

It’s a horror show.

There’s a hand gripping his shoulder then, and he screams, frantically flailing his arms and trying to set himself free before realizing who it is. Liesbet’s eyes are wide with panic and fear, streaks of red coating her hair and smudged on her face.

“Come on!” she hollers at him, dragging him towards the back of the room. The nilfgaardians have reached the middle of the hall, and are all around them as they scramble over the overturned chairs and dead bodies.

A young beta boy dies to their left-- he looks like one of their help, probably serving at the banquet -- the steel of a sword impaling him through the heart. The soldier pulls out his blade and advances on them as the boy’s body tumbles, the next target in his sight.

Liesbet pushes him away and he stumbles backwards, losing his balance. Once he regains his footing, the soldier has already reached his sister, grabbing her by her hair and yanking it down.

He screams, lurching forward when Liesbet yells at him to run, and is suddenly jerked back by the collar of his doublet just as the soldier brings his sword down and slits her throat from side to side.

Blood gushes, and Liesbet stares at him with an almost uncomprehending look in her eyes, bringing her hands up to her neck on reflex.

He’s screeching incoherently and thrashing as whoever grabbed him by the collar keeps pulling him back, towards the end of the room. He can’t take his eyes off her, even as the light leaves the cornflower blues that used to match his and she slumps to the floor, a pool of red forming around her in a bloody halo and staining her cream-colored dress.

The grip on his side and shoulder doesn’t relent, no matter how much he fights it, and he finds himself being dragged off to the dais. He trips over the steps and is held up only by the bruising hold that has moved to the nape of his neck.

He looks up as he gets his feet back under him and recognizes the man herding him as one of the alphas from the banquet. He’s not looking at him though, and from the look of contempt on his face, he doesn’t seem to like him very much either.

He struggles against the vice-like grip, pivoting his body in an attempt to rip away from his captor’s grasp and run off, but the alpha is strong. The only thing Julian earns is maybe a bruise on his shoulder, as the man reaches around and pulls him back sharply, manhandling him to his front.

Julian catches one last glimpse of the hall as the man shoves him back, and the view is… gruesome. The invading army has obviously overwhelmed the nobles and guards that took up arms against them, blood spraying the walls and ceiling and flowing freely on the floor.

Julian even thinks he sees a head rolling through the air. It looks suspiciously like the alpha he shot down a few minutes ago.

He feels the sharp claws of terror gripping his heart and twisting his stomach into a dozen knots as he’s thrusted through the crowd, over to the open balcony on the right side of the dais.

He doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to join the bloodshed that is taking place in his own courting banquet, doesn’t want to think about his sister’s corpse bleeding out in the hall of the room where they’d had meals together for over twenty years. He used to put daisies in her hair and now it’s crusted with blood.

His captor shoves him past the balcony threshold and he stumbles over to the marble balustrade, catching himself on the edge. He whirls around, but he barely has time to breathe before he’s being grabbed by the arm and manhandled over the railing.

Julian cries out and redoubles his efforts in escaping the alpha that is apparently attempting to kill him by throwing him off the terrace instead of letting the nilfgaardians have his head. The man swings his own leg over the balustrade and Julian balks, gaping at him.

Is he crazy? He can’t seriously be considering jumping down into the moat as an escape route. They’re at least thirty feet up, and the moat is at most fifteen feet deep in its widest spots. They’re more likely to die hitting their heads on the rocks than they are trying to fight their way out of the dining hall.

He kicks and shoves and puts up the biggest fight of his life, but even all of his sinewy male omega strength can’t save him from the almost three hundred pound alpha dragging him over the railing.

He’s hauled to the man’s front, trying so desperately to cling to the balustrade stone that he thinks he tears some fingernails, but the sting barely registers in his mind through the haze of burning panic.

The next thing he knows, he’s whirling through the air. He’s still pressed bruisingly against the alpha’s front as they fall, the world giving way under them, and the soft fabric of his doublet and chemise flaps wildly in the wind.

For a moment, he’s weightless, free falling into the nothingness. He could close his eyes and pretend he’s dreaming, even, but he still feels his heart climbing up his throat in that uncomfortable feeling of plunging downwards without a landing.

When it comes, he takes a while to register it. It feels like what he would imagine hitting a wall at full speed in a racing horse would feel, he supposes. First, there’s a crushing force all around him, so hard that he feels like all his bones are breaking at once, and all the air expels from his lungs, then he’s falling again, through something thicker and denser than air, slower but no less uncontrolled, then he hits the ground again, hard and fast, and then the pain comes.

It reverberates all throughout his body, aching and stinging, and it hurts worse in his right wrist and his chest. He thinks he might have had his hand outstretched when he hit the surface. It’s probably broken.

His lungs are burning. He opens his mouth to let some air in -- he needs air so much, it feels like he’s on fire -- but only water rushes into his mouth. He chokes on it, feels it filling his lungs, drowning him. It hurts for a second more and then it stops. Then he’s just floating, weightless, and everything is peaceful.

He closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: mentions of child abuse (punishment by physical beatings), marriage against someone’s will, a child resulting of that marriage, minor character deaths (a lot of them -- there’s a massacre), gore and drowning (although no actual death results from it).
> 
> \---
> 
> I hope you're not too mad at me :3  
> kudos and comments fuel me!


	4. The Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAnnnndddd enter Geralt!! \o/  
> I can't believe I actually took this long writing him into this story! I swear the whole thing grew a life of its own and got away from me.  
> I promise a lot of the details I wrote about in the last chapters will be revelant at some point or another in the story, so they weren't just random things I decided to put in.  
> I considered breaking this chapter into two, since it grew into a 10k behemoth, but I'd already said Geralt was supposed to be in chapter 3, and we're going on the fourth, so I couldn't bring myself to do it xD  
> I'm not sure I'll manage to write the next chapters in this size, though. We'll see. I usually think I'll never match the length of the previous chapter and I always exceed that expectation, so... who knows?  
> Sorry for the long wait also, I know I tend to take long ass breaks in between chapters, and i'll try to fight that, but I've so much shit to do (I've recently gotten my first job! wohoo!) and time gets away from me ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> READ the endnotes for chapter specific triggers!!
> 
> Thanks again to [dragon_rider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider) for taking the time to beta this chapter and for her holy patience in wading through my letter soup spillage 🙏
> 
> I hope the tense changes don't get too confusing! Let me know if there's something you don't understand about the narrative!

The world bleeds slowly into existence, creeping around him like a hazy fog. He’s disoriented, confused, at first. Doesn’t understand why he can’t see. It takes a few seconds to realize his eyes aren’t the problem, the lack of light is. 

His feet are freezing, tiny pinpricks stinging the soles, and he feels wet and cold all over. He tries to take a deep breath in and is met with a sharp twinge of pain in his chest. His lungs deflate on instinct, as if he’s just been sucker punched, and he tries to keep his breaths short and shallow from then on. 

The cold is starting to make him shiver, so he stirs and hears the distinctive sound of mud being disturbed beneath him. It’s only then that he registers the typical sliminess of it against his skin and the earthy smell.

He realizes he’s lying on his back on the side of the moat, feet still half submerged in water. The alpha must have dragged him to shore after they fell. He doesn’t remember much aside from the moment of impact and the pain that followed, so he doesn’t think he made the swim himself, he must have blacked out.

He doesn’t hear or see the man now, doesn’t know what happened to him, but sounds of the fight are still reaching him, if slightly muted from the distance and the water stuck in his ears. They’re decreasing in regularity though, each scream more spaced from the next. The massacre must be drawing to a close.

His sister’s face pops in his head, unbidden, and he has to bite his lip to keep from making a sound as his eyes burn with unshed tears, has to find purchase in the ground as the pit falls from his stomach. 

She’s dead, gone, he’ll never see her again. 

He feels a hazy panic clawing at his heart, which has started racing in his chest, and his breath, already shortened from the ache in his ribs, gets more ragged and raspy. He starts trying to drag himself backwards, movements shaky and mindless, as if putting distance between him and the castle will make the truth of it less so. 

He puts his weight on his right hand and flinches, letting out a surprised yelp of pain and immediately withdrawing the injured limb. The pain has an instant sobering effect.

His back falls back against the mud, unsupported, and makes a wet splash as it lands. There’s a hint of a metallic taste in his mouth, and he realizes he’s bitten his lip too hard.

The stars shine above him, unmoved and unaffected. It seems odd somehow, for the world to remain so immovable while such horrors occur. He feels a strange urge to join it, to abstract himself from the situation at hand and just… forget.

He can still hear the Nilfgaardians from where he lies, though, the sharp clashing of metal and the strangled screams of agony, so he isn’t able to ignore reality for long. 

He should run, hide, find some sort of shelter. He doesn’t know anyone who’d provide such a thing for him however, and any stranger he might ask is just as likely to turn him over to the Nilfgaardians for profit than help if he told them who he was. If he reaches the lower village, perhaps he can pass for a peasant boy though. He doubts anyone would recognize him caked in mud, as it were. 

He tries lifting himself up again, this time using his left hand, and starts heading towards the thick willows that surround the castle. He has a slight falter in his step due to the fall, and the mud is slippery, so he has to tread slowly and carefully.

The darkness is almost stark, with the light that comes from the castle being weak and dim and night having truly settled in. The Nilfgaardians must have put out the lanterns placed on the outer grounds, and used the cover of night for the attack, which explains why it all happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. 

Still, it’s almost inconceivable that there had been no warning signs whatsoever. Mobilizing large armed groups isn’t exactly inconspicuous, surely someone must have noticed the Nilfgaardian presence in Metinna. 

Had his father ignored it? No. He was cruel, not stupid. He wouldn’t jeopardize his kingdom -- his own life -- like this. Had they a traitor in their mix, then? Someone that had concealed the information and helped the Nilfgaardians sneak in undetected?

He’s lost in thought, and still marginally disoriented, which is probably why he doesn’t notice the alpha until the man has reached him again, grabbing him from behind and yanking him away in the opposite direction. 

He opens his mouth to scream, more in surprise than anything else -- there’s no one to aid him around -- but the alpha covers his mouth with a hand and the sound is muffled. 

He tries to struggle against him, but he hadn't managed to free himself before in the hall, and he certainly won’t be able to now, in the wet mud, with a bum wrist and a spinning head. Helpless, he‘s dragged off to the horse the alpha must have been retrieving whilst Julian was unconscious by the moat. The animal is agitated, bobbing his head and pawing at the ground. 

His hands are wrenched behind his back, his wrist throbbing painfully from the rough movement, and he cries out. The hand covering his mouth has been removed in order to secure his arms, so this time the sound echoes out in the dark.

The alpha bites out a curse and tugs harder on his hands, presumably in retribution. Julian whimpers, shutting his eyes against the raw pain. He feels something being wrapped around his wrists and then tightened, a piece of rope from the texture of it. 

He’s picked up then, and thrown on top of the horse. The man climbs up after him before he even has time to balance himself on the saddle and urges the horse to a fast gallop. 

He’s caged between the alpha’s chest and the animal’s neck, so he doesn’t have much wiggle room, and no way of getting off the horse without the man grabbing hold of him. His hands are tied behind his back, so he can’t take control of the horse either.

He’s forced to sit tight and try to hold on to the man’s tunic from behind to keep his balance, as they ride away from the castle. The sounds of fighting get fainter and fainter in the distance until they disappear completely, and Julian isn’t able to hear anything but the crickets and the wind. 

They ride the whole night, fast and northeast. 

Julian is drained, too tired to ponder on any escape plans, and it’s not like he’s got much of a chance at one, really. He just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep, pretend like this night never happened, but it’s quite hard to slumber on a moving horse. He has a feeling the dull ache in his wrist and chest would have kept him awake anyway.

It’s also terribly cold, the wind biting as they race through the darkened forests and open fields. It doesn’t help matters that his clothing is soaked. 

His body trembles and his teeth rattle, the noise loud but muffled by the horse’s hooves hitting the earth. 

He curls in on himself and leans backwards, despite his better judgement. The alpha’s body heat at his back is his only source of warmth, and even though he wants anything but to get up close and personal with this man, he’s unable to stop himself from seeking it out.

He tries looking for landmarks, anything to mark their path, but it’s hard to see anything in near pitch black, and his brain is too scattered to process any information. 

He hadn’t had much time to take in the man’s appearance back at the banquet, too horrified at the sight of his sister’s throat being slashed open in front of him to pay mind to anything else. Now though, he can see his captor is dark-haired and brown-eyed, with a month’s old bear growing on his jaw. His features are sharp and hard, with a long chin and narrow jawline.

He tries asking him where they’re going and who he is, what his motives are, but the alpha doesn’t care much for the inquiries. He tells Julian to ‘shut the hell up, omega’ in no uncertain terms, and when Julian insists, gives a hard intentional tug at his injured hand. 

Julian is grateful the man cannot see his face, for while he tries to hold his breath and keep the choked noises in, he cannot stop the tears that flow down from his eyes in an incessant torrent. 

When the sun starts coming up again, the first rays of light shining through the thick foliage of the tallest trees, Julian sees the profile of a small camp in the distance. He has no idea how far they’ve travelled, but he heard the rushing waters of the Sylte at one point during the night, so he deduces they must have followed a route somewhat parallel to the river. Which makes sense - camps should always be assembled close to a water source. 

He knows if he follows the river back west, he’ll end up at the castle again, but even if he somehow manages to escape his captor, going back would just deliver him to the Nilfgaardians. He has nowhere to go. No home, no family, no land. And he has a fair idea of what horrors await him. Death would arguably be preferable. 

Perhaps, if he manages to run all the way to Cintra, he can ask Queen Calanthe for asylum? It’s a hopeful notion, a lifeline to cling to, but he doubts he’ll manage it. 

They ride at a fast-paced walk now, straight to the encampment.

Julian squints his eyes to better gaze upon the distant barracks, tries to discern how many men reside there. There seem to be at least a dozen, all fighting men, he infers by the way their figures glint in the sunlight -- they’re wearing armor. 

As they get closer, he gets a better look at their tents, the fabric patchy and dirtied from what is probably many years of use. The men’s armor seems to be in better condition, he notes, and the horses tied up by the makeshift holding paddock seem sturdy as well.

When they near the camp, his eyes fall upon some colored shields. They’re lined up on a table next to what he assumes is the armorer’s tent, judging by the other pieces of armor in their mix. He notices the silver eagle behind a field of red, immediately ringing a bell of recognition in his head. Redania. 

The thought of its king comes to mind, and what he’d heard concerning him the week prior. 

What could this mean? Had Radovid somehow known of the tragedy that would befall his family? Had that been why he’d sent an envoy instead of coming in person? But if so, why would he go through the trouble in the first place? Julian would make for a prized possession as an omega, but to go through all this... Surely there was a different explanation, or some kind of key insight he was missing. 

The alpha nudges their horse towards the paddock, slowing its step, and Julian surveys the camp. The men that have noticed his arrival are either looking at him disinterestedly or sneering, most with lewd mocking smirks contorting their faces. Julian recoils at the blatant crudeness, and once again finds himself wondering about what trials the future has in store for him.

The alpha dismounts and yanks Julian down in the same harsh manner he’s been handling him with the whole night. Another man shows up next to them, a beta, younger and sporting no armor, at least not on the same level as the rest of them, and takes the horse from the alpha. Must be the squire. 

The alpha pushes Julian forward with a shove at his back, making him stumble. He manages to keep his footing though, and starts walking in the direction the alpha implied.

He keeps his eyes downcast, not wishing to see the faces of these Redanian men who look at him like a piece of meat on display, and fights back the tears that threaten to spill once more. His eyes already feel puffy and swollen from all that he’d cried during the night, and, in truth, he feels too exhausted to weep, fears he’s run dry out of tears altogether. But his eyes still burn, water still gathers, little sobs still shake his body, making him wrap his arms around himself. What a pitiful sight he must make.

The least he hopes for is that none of these men will risk incurring the wrath of their king by tarnishing his omega before he is delivered -- assuming they’re taking him to Radovid, that is, which is what he’s deemed the most plausible outcome.

The alpha herds him through the muddied paths between the barracks, takes him to a cramped tent at the back of the camp. The inside is predictably bare, save for an empty work table and a wooden post. He already knows the purpose of it before the alpha shoves him down and cuts the rope at his wrists. 

Julian enjoys a brief moment of relief, where his hurt wrist is loose from the tight restraints and the pain lessens somewhat, before the alpha is grabbing a new piece of rope and tying his arms behind the pole, just as firmly as before.

Julian lets out a defeated sigh, letting his hands fall to the ground as the man releases them and stands. He looks up, wondering if the alpha is going to say anything, but the man simply turns his back and walks away.

He closes the flap of the tent on the way out, isolating Julian in the empty space. 

He looks around, taking in his surroundings. It’s a quick affair, after all there’s nothing to look at aside from the plain dirt-white fabric that encloses him. 

The ground is hard and uncomfortable beneath his bottom, and his clothes haven’t dried completely yet, so it also feels icy against his already cold skin. He’s remotely aware he’s trembling, probably not just from the low temperature, but he doesn’t want to think about what’s happened, doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. He can’t find it in himself to focus on a single topic for more than a fleeting second. His mind is like a whirlwind, spinning and spireling and hurling everything in its path. It feels like it can’t stop, like it’ll never stop.

He wants to sag against the post, fade into a dreamless slumber and make his brain stop, but the wood is hard and unforgiving against his back, and his wrist feels as if it were on fire. A deep sob racks his body and reverberates painfully in his chest, making his breath hitch. The tears he thought had all but run out start flooding his eyes again, pooling and overflowing down his cheeks.

His vision blurs until all he sees is the hazy grey from the tent fabric, and his breath shortens, coming out in quick spurts. 

The sobs he’s holding back gain sound and momentum, and he can’t keep them in anymore. He weeps, noisily and messily, all the while feeling terrified someone will barge in to yell and punish him for it. The fear urges his mind to keep quiet, to stop his wails and unruly crying, but it has the opposite effect on his body. He finds himself losing further control, unable to do anything but try to breathe between the racking sobs and broken wails.

He hears movement from outside, someone passing by, but they don’t come in to chastise him. Two more minutes pass and he remains alone. Ten minutes. Fifteen.

He loses track of time, has no recollection of when he stopped crying. Perhaps it was as he finally dozed off into a restless sleep, perhaps even then he continued. He only knows that when he next opened his eyes and found them dry, the sun had long since set in the horizon and the wolves howled in unison at the moon somewhere in the distance. 

\--

Julian gazes up at the ceiling of the barn, idly committing to mind the cracks and spots in the aged stone as one would count the stars. The pattern has been all but seared into the back of his brain, from how often he finds himself in this position. He hasn’t seen the night sky in what must be over two weeks now, so these have been serving as his stars. He’s lost track of time, the days merging together as he sits through them all, and he doesn’t have the moon to keep track. 

They’ve kept him in here, chained to his corner, ever since they’d arrived at the village. 

He’s not completely sure of his whereabouts, but if he had to wager a guess, he’d put them somewhere near Caravista, since they appear to have stuck to their northeastern route. They’d left the small encampment near Metinna the morning after Julian had first arrived, a different man coming to collect him from his tent. 

Julian had been awake at that time, ears trained on the outside happenings. He’d stayed up most of the night, unable to sleep after the long nap brought out of exhaustion from the morning before. He hadn’t had anything to eat that first day either, since no one came to check on him during the night. 

His neck and back had developed a horrible crick from sleeping against the hard wooden pole, and his right wrist had swollen, making the rope restraints dig deeper into his skin. His chest was marginally better at least, so he could attempt longer breaths with less discomfort. 

The beta man that came to collect him was slimmer than the alpha, but still looked strong enough to ward off any plans Julian might concoct towards overpowering him and escaping. Julian kept silent as the beta approached, hoping that if he didn’t bother the man he might be kinder to him.

The beta was brown-haired, with a long nose and an uneven jaw, and had a small scar on his left cheekbone. His scent was faint, the way betas’ usually were, and Julian was thankful for that small mercy -- having a strange alpha’s scent that close to him was often stifling and overbearing. He could still smell the one that had taken him from the banquet on his clothes, every whiff filling him with revulsion and anxiety.

The beta crouched behind him, cutting the ropes that tied him to the pole and pulling him to his feet. To Julian’s great dismay his hands were bound yet again at the small of his back, but the man had at least given him a larger allowance of rope, so it didn’t dig so painfully into the tender skin of his wrist. 

He tried to drag his feet and slow their walk to the holding paddock, to test boundaries and allow himself a better chance to study his surroundings, but the beta gave him a rough push forward. “Don’t try me, omega,” he’f grumbled under his breath, near Julian's ear.

The mare the beta rode was dark brown and tamer than the horse from the previous night, and her canter was thankfully much more comfortable. 

They travelled for a week, always making camp near the Sylte and only stopping at night. He was always kept tied up in a tent, but at least they started giving him a wider berth of rope, so he could slide down and lay horizontally on the tarp laid out for him. 

The meals consisted of small game hunted during their travels, or sometimes food bought in small villages they passed. They never got close to them; a man or two were always dispatched to go and bring supplies for the rest, so Julian only ever actually saw a couple in the distance. The food itself wasn’t particularly appealing, lacking condiments and a knowing hand in its confection, but Julian didn’t have much appetite either way. 

He forced himself to eat, mostly because he intellectually knew that he needed the nourishment, but he could never bring himself to consume the same amount he was used to before. He doubted they’d give him that much if he asked, anyway.

He spent the first day of travel fatigued because of his changed sleep schedules, and ended up dozing a bit on the horse until the beta shook him awake. 

The beta’s name was Lennard, he later learned from listening to their conversations, and the alpha who’d taken him from the banquet was Rolon, the second in command.

At night, he heard the conversations they had about him, saw the faces some of the men made at him when they thought nobody was looking. From what he understood, there was usually a man keeping watch on him from outside, probably more to keep him from escaping than to protect him from the others, but he was grateful it had the added advantage of acting as a deterrent.

When a larger settlement came into view and they kept their route instead of stopping or going around it, Julian realized their journey was finally coming to an end, at least temporarily. The thought filled him with dread.

They stayed in the outskirts, in a small farmhouse with a few acres of land, and Julian was led over to the barn that the soldiers had probably expropriated for themselves. They exchanged his rope restraints for metal chains with cuffs that allowed him to keep his arms at his front, and secured those to a hoop on the wall where cattle would presumably be tied to.

\--

He spends his days sitting, sometimes reclining against the wall, sometimes laid out on the hard floor, alone with his thoughts. They only unchain him when he needs to use the privy, which amounts to a sum of about three times per day. They don’t do it right away, though -- some exchange his metal cuffs for rope, like Anatol, and only untie him near the bushes outside, others don’t bother at all. He’s at least granted a modicum of privacy after that.

They gave him a bedroll to sleep in, thankfully, and a change of clothes after the second day in the barn. He still had the banquet’s garb on -- well, the under chemise and the pants, that is, his doublet had been left at the bottom of the moat -- and it was in a sorry state. The clothes they gave him aren’t much better -- tattered and old -- but at least they're clean. 

They allowed him to change during his bathroom break, since they have to unchain his hands for that process. Julian dressed hurriedly, cheeks flaming and body trembling from the cold. He hates being at the mercy of these men, hates feeling utterly helpless and vulnerable.

The swelling in his right wrist has subsided a bit, but movement is still painful and he does not have the same range as before. He’s afraid he’ll never regain it completely and lose his ability to play the lute, but he also isn’t seeing any near opportunities of getting his hands on one, so he tries not to think about it too much. 

The skin on both his wrists is getting red and itchy from the chafing of the metal cuffs, so he’s trying to avoid moving them altogether. It’s fine, it’s not that hard. He finds he doesn’t feel the urge to do much with his days anyway. He feels… numb.

If he’s being completely honest with himself, he still hasn’t gotten it through to his head that the events of the past week are, in fact, real. That they’ve actually happened. They seem like a distant memory now, like a recurring nightmare that pops up every now and then and leaves you with a distinctive feel of familiarity yet untruthfulness. He feels as if he’s still waiting on a dream to end, waiting to rise from his bed and go about his daily life in the castle. But no awakening is forthcoming, no light at the end of this tunnel is visible. 

Sleep does not come easy. Every time he closes his eyes he’s assaulted by the sight of his sister’s cornflower blue ones staring back at him. Sometimes in agony, sometimes in confusion, worst of all is when they pierce him accusingly. Sometimes they weep, and instead of tears, rivulets of red spill down her cheeks, bright like the blood that spurted from her throat as it was slit. 

Then, her mouth opens as if to wail her pain away, but no sound resonates. She cannot speak. When he starts trying to recall what she sounded like, how the timbre of her voice echoed in the halls of the castle, he feels the memory of her slipping as if slithering away from his grasp. He clings to it frantically, afraid it will flicker out of existence like a candle snuffed out by the light summer breeze.

He’s terrified of forgetting, terrified of losing the last thing he has ownership over -- his mind.

He occasionally wonders about the rest of his family, about Niklas and his parents -- ponders on their current whereabouts. Whether they’re still alive, plagued by anger and hasty notions of retribution in the deep cover of whatever burrows they retreated into, or if they lie amongst the corpses in the great hall, their blood mingling with the pools of red that flooded the floors.

Whatever the case, he knows better than to rely on them for deliverance. He would be the last thing on his father’s mind were he to survive. He needs to find another way to rescue himself. So he does.

He waits for the bald beta with the crooked nose, Anatol, to be on duty. He’s the one that likes to make vulgar snipes, looks at him with thinly veiled hunger in his eyes. He’s also quite short sighted, which Julian hopes will play in his favor. 

Anatol is the one that keeps company the most when allocated to the barn. Many a night Julian has sat in his corner, trying to tuck himself into the shadows as the men drink and engage in boisterous chatter and gambling on an improvised table by the horse stalls. They mostly ignore him, provided he keeps quiet, but Anatol is known to incite conversation about their king and the habits he keeps, namely in regards to bed partners. 

Julian had heard the rumours before, but the things these men speak of, in such a frivolous tone, turn his stomach. He doesn’t understand how a man, much less a king, could commit such horrendous acts. Anatol says he likes to watch them suffer, says there’s nothing like it.

Julian knows he does it on purpose, satisfies his own perverted sense of satisfaction by scaring the helpless omega, and the thought brings rage-fueled tears to his eyes. He vows to never let him scent how truly frightened and horrified he is, how every night he wonders what terrors will await him by Radovid’s hands, but it’s hard to keep the emotions in check, to keep them from pouring out into the open.

Julian is always reluctant to be left alone with Anatol, always nervous and disturbed when he’s on guard duty. He’s constantly waiting for the day when Anatol is going to get less verbal and more physical, but it hasn’t come yet. If he plays his cards right, it never will.

That afternoon, when he asks to go take care of his business, Anatol takes him out back behind the barn where a few chosen bushes and trees afford a person some privacy and cover. They never take him to the house. He thinks it’s because they don’t want anyone catching sight of him -- don’t want rumors starting up around town of the omega lad being held hostage at their doorstep. It’s not exactly common, to be what he is, people are sure to deduce his identity sooner or later. 

Julian walks over to the spot between the bushes he normally uses, rubbing his wrists with his currently freed hands to lessen the painful throb of the irritated skin. It’s dark and red, deep bruises taking form like round bracelets adorning his wrists.

There’s an old pile of bricks next to a hawthorn shrub that he noticed the fourth time he came out here, probably leftovers from an old work conducted on the farm. Most of them are brittle and eroded, some parts having been turned to dust completely, but he digs for one that has somewhat kept its shape and is hardy enough to be used as a weapon. 

Then he skips over to the next phase of his plan - waiting for Anatol to run out of patience. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Omega! Get your ass back here!” the beta calls out after what is maybe five minutes, perhaps less. 

Julian stays still where he crouches, out of sight behind the hawthorn, and tries to keep as quiet as possible. Anxiety alights his veins and fires up his heart, turning the steady beat into a gallop so loud it sounds like clanging to his ears. His breathing turns sharper and faster, and he has to make a conscious effort to control it in order to lower the volume, almost holding his breath in completely.

He hears footsteps -- heavy -- signaling Anatol’s approach, and clutches the brick hard in his hand. There’s a little prick of pain in his fingers, possibly from a sharper edge of the stone cutting into his skin, but he doesn’t have time to even acknowledge it. He hears Anatol turning the corner, spots the beginnings of his legs appearing behind it and launches himself at him. 

He summons the greatest amount of force he possibly can, sending a quick prayer for his aim to be true and the blow solid, and smacks the brick over his head. 

Anatol’s eyes widen in surprise the moment before the blow connects, but he doesn’t have time to push him off. He lets out a grunt and falls like a rock, out cold. There’s a gash on the skin of his scalp bleeding freely and abundantly, trickling down the side of his head and dripping onto the grass.

Julian drops his improvised weapon and steps back shakily, slightly in shock he actually managed to do it.

He doesn't have time to stand around staring with his mouth agape, though. He reminds himself of the next step. He needs to run, he can’t afford to lose even a handful of seconds. Anatol could wake up at any moment, and he would surely waste no time sounding the alarms. 

He crouches down next to Anatol and takes the rope that he used to fashion his restraints with. It’s coarse and longish, about the widthspan of his arms -- Anatol used the other end to hold onto. 

He ties it around his waist and stands back up, turning to survey his environment. Right now he has cover provided by the bushes, a corner of the back gardens no one has tended to in years. The house is to his right and the orchard to his left.

He can’t go to the house, and he knows the men patrol the grounds, so his best bet is to keep to the shadows and stay out of sight. If he could get a horse the escape would become a whole lot easier, but despite listening attentively to the men’s conversations these past three weeks, he hasn’t been able to discern a good window of opportunity for the stables. He shouldn’t risk it.

He goes left and heads for the orchard, eyes skittering across the visible land for any signs of guards. He hugs the trees as he moves down the path, taking refuge in their provided shadows. 

He spots a group of three soldiers talking near the dirt road between the paddocks, and hunches low to the ground, taking cover among the tall grass that surrounds the planting field. He lowers his left hand to the dirt for support, keeping his right tucked close to his chest. It still hurts to put all his weight on it, and he can’t move it properly.

The ground is wet and muddy beneath his fingers, clinging to his skin -- it rained last night. He’ll have to be careful to cover his tracks, or they’ll track him by his footprints. 

The soldiers seem engaged in their conversation, so Julian treads on, slowly, so as not to draw their attention to any movement in their periphery. He continues downwards, using the sun as his guide to head east. 

He’s going to try to make it to Caravista. Once there he can… beg for some coin in the streets, try to find a place that would take him for the night, a shelter perhaps. He won’t have it easy, any alpha or attentive beta needs but a whiff of him to realize what he truly is. Perhaps… the best course would be to take advantage of that.

Rape might… be inevitable, he thinks with a heavy heart, and if he finds work in a brothel, it’ll happen on his own terms. _And_ he’ll get some amount of coin for it. It would be better than the alternative -- left to starve and wither on the streets in between bouts of abuse he won’t be able to defend himself from.

At least in a brothel he’ll get steady meals and a wage, no matter how small, and possible protection against more unruly violent customers.

It’s a vile prospect, to whore his body out for profit, but it would mean survival. 

His mother would turn in her grave at the thought. If she had one. 

He wonders what had become of the bodies, if any of the servants left alive would take it upon themselves to bury the corpses of their sovereigns. Maybe none had been left drawing breath. Maybe the Nilfgaardians had erected a large pyre and burnt the bodies indiscriminately, or maybe they had thrown them all in a mass grave outside the grounds. 

It wouldn’t be the wisest course -- a burial of that size would be sure to attract the interest of a few necrophages, ghouls and rotfiends and the like. Of course the Nilfgaardians could simply not care, and have taken Metinna merely because of ease and passage. Their true goal appeared to lie further north.

He’s almost nearing the short creek at the base of the hill the farm is situated upon when he hears shouts of alarm coming from the house. He’s a fair distance away now, so the noise is dulled to his ears, but it brings him up short right away.

His heart speeds up once again, the beginnings of panic and fear clouding his thoughts as he hears the sound of hooves hitting the ground getting louder and closer. He makes a dash for the little bridge that stands over the creek running down from the house and dives under, hiding under the aged mossy rock of the arch.

The water laps at his knees as he ducks his head and crouches to fit in the cramped corner where he is most protected from sight, plastering himself against the wet stone. The air smells damp and earthy here, and the water is cold, but he pays little mind to it.

He hears the horses getting closer until voices are also discernible, talking in angry rushed tones. 

“-re the little shit went?” a man's voice said. The sound was hard and gravelly, and it made Julian shudder. He couldn’t place it, though he wasn’t sure if he’d never heard it before. 

“No. Detachments have already been sent south and west, but no one knows. He can’t have left that long ago, though. Vleti said he just saw Anatol take him out of the barn,” Julian hears as the horses step over the bridge.

He presses himself closer against the stone wall, holding his breath and holding as still as he possibly can. He dares not make a sound. 

The soldiers continue on their heated conversation, and the hoofsteps echo loudly under the bridge, until the horses have reached the other side and the sound of their galloping and the human voices start to fade. Julian doesn’t budge from his hideout, and counts to fifty in his head after he stops hearing them. Only then does he move from his uncomfortable position under the archway. 

His trousers are thoroughly soaked now, and he can barely feel his feet. He moves slowly out from under the bridge, peeking his head out first to see if there are any soldiers in sight. He sees none.

He emerges from the creek, climbing up the natural depression in the land from where the water flows. It stands at about the height of his waist, a little higher maybe, and he has to use his left hand for support to heave himself up. 

He needs to keep heading down, but there are no trees to hide himself behind for a few acres now, and the grass isn’t so tall as to prove useful anymore. It’s getting dark, but the dusk is not nearly dim enough to use as cover either.

He should get as far away from the road as he can, be prepared to duck and toss himself to the ground if he sees anybody coming. 

He starts going down the hill with as fast a pace as he trusts himself to go, being mindful to step on the rockiest ground so as to leave no tracks. He sends up a few prayers to the gods, begging them to be merciful and benevolent, and aid him in his attempt to escape. 

He hasn’t felt very religious the past few weeks, but he’s willing to try anything now. 

When he finally sees the line of trees signaling the start of the forest peeking out from over the fences, he feels ready to cry. He thinks he might be. 

He runs faster, heart beating so fast it feels like it might escape his chest. He can’t believe he’s actually going to make it. Once he reaches the forest, the guards will have a harder time tracking him, and in a couple of days or so, he can be in Caravista. All he needs is to keep heading east.

He’d probably get there faster, but he doesn’t want to travel too close to the main road. 

When he finally reaches the fences surrounding the outer farmlands, he all but launches himself over them, crazed with dizzying happiness and relief. He’s laughing, uncontrollable giggles he tries his best to choke down but fails to, as he crosses the first trees and continues on, running deeper and deeper into the woods. He runs and runs, until he can no longer sight the orchard fields when he looks back. 

He only stops when night has truly settled and the first wolf howl rings out. It’s a bright night, the moonlight lighting the forest ground around him. He can see clearly in all directions, and when he looks up, the stars greet him back, peaceful and immovable. He can’t fight back the smile that tears at his lips and the giggles that escape him.

He’s distantly aware that this kind of desperate happiness and hysterical laughter sounds more manic than natural to his ears, and that he ought to take a break and get his wits back about him, lest he go truly mad. 

The adrenaline of the escape has been wearing thin for a while now and the run has worn him out. He never got much sleep in that blasted barn to begin with either, so a deep-set tiredness and weariness has taken over his limbs, which are starting to feel a bit akin to jam. He takes a look around him, surveying his surroundings, and looks for the tree best suited to his purposes. 

He wanders a bit until he finds a broad one, with thick long branches and ample foliage, likely very old from the looks of it. It’ll do perfectly.

He’s never been one for grand demonstrations of strength — he’d never had the muscle to show for it — but he’d always been a good runner, an agile climber, and, ultimately, he thinks those skills will prove much more valuable to him. 

He toes his sodden boots off, leaving them near the tree to dry. It would be imprudent to make the climb with soaked footwear. The socks he’ll leave, even though they feel uncomfortably damp against his skin, they’ll protect him against splinters.

He grabs the nearest branch, which is an arm's length away from his head, and tests it first, to see if it can handle his weight. It seems to hold, so he uses it to lever himself up. He pushes up with his feet against the tree trunk, and kicks out, landing himself atop the branch.

The next one lies much closer, merely three palms away from his face, and, after that, it’s a steady climb up. He stops about two quarters and a half of the way up, confident that he’s gone far enough to hide himself from whatever may prowl these woods, and settles back against the trunk. 

He unties the rope he took from Anatol from around his waist and loops it around the tree, tying himself down to make sure he doesn’t stir and inadvertently plunge to the ground in his sleep. If he weren’t so tired he wouldn’t think himself capable of sleeping like this, but he feels bone-weary, and the heady relief of being free makes for a good sedative. He finds himself slipping under in less time than he would have guessed.

Images of deep blue eyes and snow white flowers lull him to sleep.

\--

A loud noise stirs him from his slumber and he takes a sharp intake of air, reaching his arms out for something to hold onto and feeling a deep plunging fall in his heart when they close around thin air. He almost tips over to the side, but something tightens around his waist and keeps him upright.

He blinks his eyes open, looking around him in the sudden frantic panic of being abruptly awoken.

Awareness comes to him just as suddenly. He remembers where he is, tied to a tree in the forest near the farmlands, although he couldn’t say how close. He’d run for quite a while. 

It’s still dark, no hints of dawn on the horizon, so it can’t have been that long. He doesn’t feel very rested either, although, in truth, he might not remember what that feels like anymore.

The sound repeats, and with a sinking heaviness in his chest, he realizes what had awoken him. Dogs. He can hear the barking in the distance. He trains his ears on the sounds, holds his breath to listen.

It’s getting closer. 

He swallows nervously, feeling the way his heart starts pumping up in his chest, the way his arms and legs start tingling with the adrenaline again. 

They’re going to find him. They have godsdamned track dogs, he’ll never evade them. Why had he not thought of this? 

The growing panic he feels right now, coursing through his veins and making his heart run, is going to lead the dogs even faster to him. Godsdamn it all to hell, _fuck!_

He can’t stay up here, they’re going to find him in minutes!

He palms the rope frantically, finding the knots he tied and working desperately to undo them. His fingers are clumsy and useless, and he wants to scream in frustration. Tears are already streaming down his cheeks, blurring his vision, and he wipes furiously away at them, trying to get a better view of the rope.

He gives it a few tugs, trying to break it by force, but the blasted thing won’t budge. He starts trying to unbind it again, using his nails to dig into the ties and unravel the stupid thing. He yanks his hand with the knot hooked to try and open it and his nail snaps. He hisses out in pain and brings the finger to his mouth, tasting blood.

He can’t stop. He can hear the hounds closing in each minute that passes. 

He resumes his attempts to untie the knots, ignoring the pain in his finger, and trying not to get the rope wet -- it’ll be even harder to undo then. 

By some miracle, he finally manages to get the thing undone, and tosses himself out the side of the branch, making his way down as fast as he can. He misses a few branches and scratches his palms on the bark, but he can barely think about that now.

He’s almost to the ground when his foot misses the lower branch, sliding off the side of it with a twinge of pain. His hold on the trunk slips and he falls, feeling the world spin around him as he throws his arms out to try and grab onto something. He lands on his back with a heavy thud, the air knocked out of his lungs. He groans and rolls around, pushing himself to his feet.

His left foot aches something terrible, and he tries to take a step forward only to hunch in on himself and stumble forward with a gasp of pain. He must have sprained it. 

His boots still rest at the bottom of the tree, but he hasn’t any time to put them on -- the hounds are getting closer by the second.

He takes another step and doesn’t let himself flinch, soldiers through the pain to take the next step, and the next. He picks up the pace until he’s running, or as close to it as he can manage, and tries to head away from the hounds. He brings his injured finger to his mouth, sucking on the blood. He can’t afford for any of it to fall on the ground and lead the hounds to him. 

He needs to find water, needs to throw them off his scent. 

The only source he can think of is the little creek he hid in when he escaped, but he has no way of knowing if it flows this far into the forest, and he can’t hear anything over the sound of the hounds. He’ll never be able to find it by ear.

He can hear them getting closer -- so much closer. There are human shouts now too, he can hear them in between the constant barking. He can’t tell what they’re saying, but they’re getting louder as well. They must be only a couple acres away. He can’t stop -- needs to go faster. 

He’s panting, sucking air in as quick as he can and ignoring the way the chill scratches his throat, ices his lungs from the inside out. He blinks tears from his eyes and keeps running, stifling the sobs that want to escape him every time he lays his weight on his left foot. 

The voices become intelligible. ‘They’ve caught his scent’, ‘He went this way’, ‘Catch the little shit’ they said, along with some other creative insults. Julian can’t choke down his sobs anymore.

He doesn’t look back, can’t make himself do it, not even when he starts hearing the rustling of leaves under the dog’s paws, and the swish of air they make cutting through the night breeze. 

He keeps running, keeps going until he can’t. Until something heavy and solid strikes him in the back and he goes tumbling to the ground.

Pain erupts at his shoulder and he cries out, reaching out a hand and punching the dog in the snout to make him get off. The dog whines and backs away, but suddenly they’re all around him, circling him and snarling, snapping at the air as he tries to crawl away from them.

He raises a hand to his left shoulder, feeling the wetness there. It comes away bloody. 

The soldiers arrive soon after, and Julian peers up through tear blurred eyes to see the face of Anatol, twisted in rage and contempt swimming in front of him. Blood is crusted on the side of his head, tangled in the thin hairs there, and some of it is smudged on his face. 

Julian curls in on himself, letting the sobs rack his body even as the soldiers begin yelling at him and Anatol steps forward to grab him roughly by his injured arm. He yanks him up, leaving him no time to recoil or otherwise defend himself as he lands a solid punch over his nose.

Julian's head reels back and he gasps at the pain, bringing his other hand to his nose. He can’t tell anymore, since the blood from his shoulder still coats his hand, but he thinks he might be bleeding there now too.

He barely has time to recuperate before Anatol is landing another punch. This one catches him in the left eye, and leaves him dazed, head light and dizzy with pain. 

The third one knocks him out.

\--

Julian mumbles to himself, a slow sad melody that sounds fractured and forlorn coming from his bruised lips. It came to him the night before, as he laid on his right side in the hard barn ground, squeezing his eyes shut against the many pains that ailed his beaten body.

He’d gotten the worst of it the night he escaped, once they’d gotten him back. Anatol had seen to that. He’d heard some of the others expressing concern about damaging the king’s property, but Anatol had assured everyone he’d receive no permanent damage, and they’d all agreed he was due for a good thrashing.

It’s been three days since, and his left foot has swollen up to the size of a small pumpkin. His shoulder aches still, as does his right wrist, but it had already stopped bleeding when he woke up after that night. Now only the long gashes remain where the dog had sunk its teeth, but they’ve started trying to scab over.

His eye is tender to the touch, slightly swollen as well, and he wagers, if he had a mirror handy, that it would have a darker coloring to it right about now. 

It’s partly his fault — he’d gotten angry, frustrated since the failed escape. He’d find himself mouthing off to the guards, biting out a replying insult before he even knew what his mouth was doing. 

The look of shocked surprise on Anatol’s face the first time he’d done it had been well worth the kick in the ribs it had cost him. The pain was losing its novelty, perhaps he was developing a resistance to it. The threat of it was no longer enough for him to keep his mouth shut, and he knew they couldn’t kill, rape or hurt him permanently, on the orders of their king.

He closes his eyes and hums, pictures the notes of the melody in a blank paper sheet, imagines the familiar weight of his lute in his outstretched hands, picks his fingers at imaginary chords.

It gets harder to remember by the day, what it was like before this. The better memories are the ones he’s most terrified of losing, and those are also the ones that seem to escape him the harder he tries to cling to them. 

He pictures his sister’s face in his head every day, and every day the image gets blurrier. He thinks it might be more due to his panic at the possibility of losing the memory than actual lack of remembering — he’s spent months apart from her without fearing forgetfulness — but it’s fading all the same; replaced by the sneering faces of the Redanian soldiers he can see every time he shuts his eyes.

His lips are bruised and cracked, and it hurts to talk, to move his mouth in the motion of words, but he still sings, sings out for her. 

_“I saw them wide and thrilled and real_  
_for days and weeks and years,_  
_I saw them freeze and turn to steel_  
_to shield you from your fears._

_“I saw them mourn and love avoid_  
_when time came to depart,_  
_They shed their tears and cried their fill_  
_and put aside their heart._

_“Oceans, skies and columbines_  
_A hundred shades of blues,_  
_I saw them all deep in your eyes_  
_A myriad of hues._

_“I saw them later, jaded, faded_  
_by the course of life,_  
_Like limestone turns to marble they_  
_had hardened from their strife._

_“I shan’t ever forget the time_  
_they set on mine the last,_  
_Your wounded cry and silent why_  
_my sanity outlast._

_“And if age takes a toll and steals_  
_the image of your eyes,_  
_I need but gaze straight into mine_  
_for memories to rise.”_  


\--

They’re waiting for someone. A man. Julian has been hearing them talk about it for a while, when they think he’s asleep or too out of it to listen. And whoever it is, it seems he has just arrived, judging from the horse noises and commotion he hears from outside. Either that or Nilfgaard has finally discovered their whereabouts and he’s about to be treated to a hopefully swift death. 

The heavy metal door slides open with a deafening screech, and Julian winces. The two guards that like to get drunk on cheap mead with Anatol and gamble away all their orens walk in, but they’re talking to someone else. Someone that trails behind.

He catches what the younger guard is saying halfway through, “—right here inside. We’ll show it to you.”

A fourth man walks inside, an alpha -- a powerful one, Julian immediately senses. He can taste the danger in the air. The stranger is large, of sturdy build, and wearing high-grade armor. He’s never seen that kind before, it looks hardier and more durable than what they provide the guard with back in Metinna – provided. Metinna is no more. 

The armor isn’t the only thing strange about the man: his hair — it’s white as winter snow. With a sudden unexpected pang, he remembers the two other people he knows with hair very much like that. This man, though, his hair is even lighter, if such a thing is possible, and yet he does not look aged in the slightest, not enough to justify the color, that is.

The stranger’s eyes snap to him, and Julian feels a shudder running up his spine. The man’s irises are an unnatural shade of yellow, a molten gold kind of hue, and they’re oddly intense in their gaze. Julian feels as if the man can stare deep into his very soul with but a glance.

The man frowns at him, an air of discontentment about him as he examines Julian’s condition. He must make for quite a view, chained like a dog to the stone wall, beaten black and blue and clothed in dirtied torn garments. 

The guards walk over to him, a smug look on their faces as the tall one produces a key from one of his pockets. He feels a speck of relief, realizing that they’re going to uncuff him, which is immediately snuffed out by the understanding that they’re only doing so to transfer him over to the alpha. Are they selling him? Have they changed their minds? Deserted?

No, they would have raped and killed him if that was the case.

He swallows nervously as the guard tugs on his chains roughly and his arms lift into the air, attached. The skin of his wrists is bruised and irritated from the continuous rub of the metal, but he doesn’t protest against the pain. The man grabs the shackles, turning his hands around, and searches for the keyhole.

The strange man’s gaze hasn’t left him yet. He appears to be even more vexed than he seemed when he first stepped foot inside, and he hadn’t looked very happy then. Julian wonders what’s on his mind, what fate awaits him.

The chains fall from his hands, landing on the floor with a loud clang. His hands would have followed suit if the guard hadn’t seized them. The guard hauls him up and Julian has to cling to him for support, head going woozy from the sudden vertical position and muscles screaming in agony from the sudden stimulation.

Rope is looped around his hands and Julian, well familiar with this procedure, brings the inside of his wrists together, remains quiet as the guard winds the rope around them and ties it down.

When the rope is secure, the guard gives him a push forward, towards the strange man, and Julian stumbles, his feet clumsily trying to support his weight so he doesn’t fall to the ground and injure himself further.

“What the fuck is this?” the stranger all but growls, his eyes flashing with anger. Julian jumps at the sound of his voice, gravely and biting. “I was told I was to smuggle a weapon, not a fucking omega.”

“We don’t care what you were told, Wolf,” Anatol drawls, stepping forward to land a bruising grip on Julian’s arm. “This is what you’re getting.”

With that final statement he shoves Julian forward, letting out a chuckle as he careens into the alpha. The stranger catches him before he can collide against his chest, though, and moves him firmly to his side. His hands are stiff and broad, but his grip is not overly hard. 

Julian catches the brunt of his scent as he stumbles, though, the heavy odor of leather and wilderness musk, along with something else he’d best describe as _danger_ , blasting him in the nose. 

Anatol had called him Wolf. Was that truly his name? He sure looked the part. 

Julian’s eyes waver on the stranger, taking in the details of his armor before being drawn to the little pendant around his neck. It has the image of a wolf, carved into the metal with expert craftsmanship. Is that where the name comes from? The image rings a bell of recognition in his head, but he can’t for the life of him remember where he’s seen it before.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with him?” The stranger, Wolf, snarls between gritted teeth. It makes the hackles on the back of Julian’s neck rise. 

Anatol shrugs, but Julian can see the thug isn’t as unmoved by the quietly contained anger of the stranger as he pretends to be. He fears this man, this Wolf. Julian doesn’t know how to feel about that. He doubts the kind of man that would scare Anatol would be in any way kind to him. With his rotten luck, he’s stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“Bring him to Radovid, take the bitch for yourself. I don’t care. I’ve done my part, I’ll keep my head. What you decide to do with yours is your concern,” Anatol says, aiming the first part at him with a sneer. “I’d watch him closely if I was you, though. Bastard is a slimy one, caved my head in with a rock, tried to escape us, he did. Almost damned near managed it, the little shit.”

Julian could swear he sees the ghost of a smile playing at Wolf’s lips, but that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, so he chalks it up to under exercised imagination and lack of sleep. 

Wolf lets out a sudden growl, true to his namesake, and whirls around, tugging Julian forward by the rope tying his hands. 

“Come on,” he orders, not sparing him a glance.

Julian steps forward and lets out a small gasp at using his injured foot, but tries to hobble forward so Wolf doesn’t turn his anger on him. His efforts don’t seem to be appreciated, though, as it doesn’t take long before Wolf stops in his tracks and pivots to look at him, a deep frown placed in his otherwise impassive face. 

He glances down at Julian’s feet, clad only in socks since the night he tried to escape, and back at the guards.

“He doesn’t have shoes?”

“Lost ‘em when he tried to escape,” Anatol shrugs, leaning back against a wooden post. 

Wolf scoffs and steps forward, in Julian’s direction. He flinches back and closes his eyes, expecting a blow of some sort, but instead of the heavy punch he’s waiting for, he gets the ground swept from under his feet. 

He opens his eyes, surprised, to see that Wolf has picked him up, draping him over his back, and is exiting the barn. He looks around in shock to see all the soldiers going about their day, waits for someone to give a shout of alarm and order them to stop, but no one does. 

This was supposed to happen all along, he realizes. It’s what they had brought him here for. With such a notion, it’s hard not to feel agitated. What could one man do that a whole brigade of soldiers could not?

Wolf carries him down to the front of the house, without muttering a word all the while. He comes to a stop near a chestnut colored horse, one that nickers in recognition and appreciation at his presence. 

He expects to be lowered down to the ground, but instead he finds himself hoisted on top of the horse. He tries to grab onto the mane for support, as the reins are out of his reach, held in Wolf’s hands.

Wolf must intend to mount with him. Julian twists his nose at the thought of having another alpha pressed so close against him for long periods of time, but Wolf doesn’t climb up. He tugs the horse forward and keeps a steady pace alongside it.

Julian looks back, watching the farmhouse and the barn get smaller and smaller as they make their way down the orchards, through the same fields he had tried to escape not even a week ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 specific triggers  
> In this chapter there is a very brief mention of death being preferable to Jaskier. It's a single line, and one of Jaskier's thoughts when faced with an uncertain future of abuse and trauma.  
> Jaskier also considers prostitution in his thoughts -- ponders working at a brothel.  
> There are some mentions of rape as something Jaskier fears happening.  
> Jaskier also sustains some injuries -- there is beating and violence.
> 
> Let me know if there's something else I should warn about!
> 
> \--
> 
> I hope the wait for Geralt was worth it ahaha I know he's only at the very end of this chapter, but fret not, i don't think future chapters will have any lack of our favorite white haired witcher :3

**Author's Note:**

> There will always be an undertone of rape/dub-con as a kind of normalized behaviour in some of the societies depicted (still negative but wide occurrence)


End file.
